


Lost and Found

by Caffeinated_Owlbear



Series: Lost and Found (the series) [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Atlas CEO Rhys, Can An AI Have PTSD, Corporate Banter, Corporate Bureaucratic Sexual Tension, Extremely Questionable Science, Gratuitous Amount of Weapon Design Nerdery, Handsome Jack AI - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Jack being Jack, M/M, Masturbation, More Tags Will Be Added as the Story Goes On, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Referenced Handsome Jack/Meg the PA, Referenced Handsome Jack/Nisha, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tales From the Borderlands, The Origin Story of Atlas Bullet Tracking Technology, Truly Terrible Flirting, Virtual Reality, mutual idiots, post-tftbl, referenced oral sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeinated_Owlbear/pseuds/Caffeinated_Owlbear
Summary: There was once a man called Jack, and he had been betrayed or abandoned by everyone he ever cared about, and he decided that if he ever cared about anyone ever again, he was going to betray or abandon them first.Then Jack made a friend. His name was Rhys.Chapter 5 of Tales happened. Rhys kept the eye.Welcome to the fix-it. It's gonna take a while. (It'll be worth it.)
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Series: Lost and Found (the series) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848973
Comments: 285
Kudos: 317





	1. Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> This is set post-TftBL and post-framing device: meaning, Rhys is back from the LB-facilitated reunion and the Vault Hunting expedition. In this timeline, things between Jack and Rhys went in Chapter 5 went down a bit differently on Helios, while still resulting in a canon-compliant ending. Reading [this fic, which is my take on the Helios betrayal,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070428) is recommended, but not necessary for this story to make sense.

All around Rhys, Helios is burning. He can feel the heat on his skin, in his lungs, through the soles of his boots every time they make contact with the metal floor as he barrels down a hallway. He turns a corner, and he can see the Hub of Heroism through a giant window: screens crumbling into showers of pixels, glass panels running like molten waterfalls, topiaries bursting into flames.

Rhys tears his eyes away from the hellish vision and presses on. Another corridor, seemingly endless, actually endless. A door that slides open in front of him, an invitation and a trap. Rhys stops in front of the open passage, then throws himself through it at full speed. The sliding doors snap shut a fraction of an inch behind him with a metal growl, disappointed at their failure to close _on_ Rhys, to cut him in half, or snap off a limb, or, at the very least, grab his clothes and hair, slow him down, make him fight if he wants to keep moving forward.

The metal floor is ever hotter, burning Rhys’s hands and knees as he picks himself up. Onward. He must keep moving. He must keep running. Even as the entirety of Helios tilts like a sinking ship, its arti-grav sensors forgetting which way is up, and half the time, Rhys is running along a wall instead of floor.

Wherever Rhys runs, wherever he turns, he can see Helios burning, crumbling, tilting, breaking. The station’s dying screams are a mix of distorted sirens, garbled evacuation messages and tortured metal. But one sound rises above the din, not louder as such, but clearer, so much clearer. A voice. So clear in Rhys’s ear it might as well be the only sound there.

“Rhys! Rhys, where are you?”

Jack sounds like he’s everywhere and nowhere, and all around Rhys and inside Rhys’s head. But he also sounds like he’s right next to him. Just around the corner. Seconds away. Like all that is separating Rhys from Jack right now is this one bend in the corridor.

Rhys takes the corner at full speed, his heels and soles skidding on the metal floor.

“Jack?”

Around the corner, there’s no-one. Just another corridor, stretching off into forever, air shivering in a heat haze.

“Jack!” Rhys calls out.

“I can’t see you, Rhys, why can’t I freaking see you?” Jack’s voice is distorting, catching like a scratched record.

“I’m right here, Jack…” Rhys mutters, staring at the walls around him, lined with monitors, half of them dead, the other half, showering sparks. “I’m right here.”

He doesn’t have the strength to run anymore, so he just walks. Forward and forward, while there’s still any forward left. Past dead and dying monitors. Past a row of escape pods, dozens, _hundreds_ of them. Past another full-height window looking out onto the Hub of Heroism, fully in flames.

Rhys walks till he reaches the end. The end is always the same. The end is the double door to Jack’s office. Closed. Locked. Sealed. No lock to pick. No handle to grab. Metal so thick that any sound of Rhys’s fists on it is dull and muted.

From somewhere above and behind Rhys, there comes a mechanical whirr. He turns around just in time to see a turret coming to life, meets its single red eye for a moment before squeezing his own eyes shut.

The turret fires, a dry rat-tat-tat as a hail of bullets leaves its barrel and slices through the air all around Rhys. He can feel the hot metal hurtling past him, but not a single round makes contact. As the sounds around him die down, Rhys opens his eyes and finds the turret still, barrel smoking but unmoving. He turns to look behind him.

A hole has been blasted in the door to Jack’s office. It almost _, almost_ big enough for Rhys to squeeze through. The jagged edges of the new entrance catch on his clothes and hair, leave a single deep cut on his left arm and a handful of scratches in the metal of his right. Rhys stumbles a few steps into Jack’s office before he finds his balance again.

His eyes are drawn to the giant screen behind Jack’s desk. Jack’s in there – well, Jack’s hologram is. It’s still larger than life, but a full-body view, not a close-up. He’s facing the office, both fists banging against the glass, his face a grimace of desperate fury that morphs into shocked relief as his eyes find Rhys.

“Rhys!” Jack stops hitting the screen. “I gotta get outta here, come on, kiddo, give me a hand.”

 _Yes, of course, just tell me what to do_ , is what Rhys wants to say, but he can’t make a sound. His mouth and throat are bone dry, and empty, and no words will come.

“Come ON!” Jack hits the screen again, with the flat of his palm this time. “Help me! Just do something, anything!”

Rhys tries to move, but his feet are welded to the floor. Jack presses both his palms against the glass.

“Please, Rhys. _Please._ I can’t–”

Jack’s projection shatters, the screen window exploding inwards. The sonic boom hits Rhys’s ears as all air is sucked from the office into the vacuum outside, and suddenly he’s no longer an immovable object, but hurtles towards the shattered window as space claims him also.

Shards of glass drift past Rhys as he’s drawn inexorably into the cold, dead, empty void outside. He can see Jack’s face in most of them: eyes full of fear, or teeth bared in anger, or staring shell-shocked, or shouting soundlessly. Or without any expression at all, eyes unmoving and glazed over.

Rhys struggles to draw a breath, but there’s only vacuum in his lungs. He floats, lifeless, surrounded by the crumbling corpse of Helios and shards of Jack.

Though in the dream, Rhys dies gasping for air, the sound that leaves his lungs when he finally wakes up isn’t a gasp, but a sob.

* * *

Here’s the thing about the human brain. It’s hard-wired to exist inside a physical form. It cannot conceive of a state in which it experiences no external stimuli. Even the most elaborate sensory deprivation the human brain can imagine is neither complete nor true. However deprived of sensations, a conscious human brain will still experience the basic functions its physical form has to offer. Heart, beating. Diaphragm, moving. Hunger, thirst, arousal. Something as simple as the feel of your own teeth against your tongue. 

A human brain can’t describe being outside a body. A human brain can’t imagine a state of perfect sensory deprivation. It has no frame of reference for either.

Now, an artificial intelligence, roughly modeled _after_ a human brain, with enough memories to give you a frame of reference for corporeal existence, but no present physical form to cushion the impact of perfect sensory deprivation… that’s a whole different ball game, kiddos.

…

… 

Here’s another thing about the human brain. When subjected to isolation and sensory deprivation for long enough, it will start trying to stimulate itself by conjuring up hallucinations. Because as far as the human brain is concerned, even the worst things it can come up with are better than nothing.

Does an artificial intelligence, roughly modeled after a human brain, come with that ‘home video’ feature? And if it does, how long is ‘long enough’ for it to kick in? And, for the million-dollar question, are the worst things Handsome-Jack-the-AI’s mind can come up with _really_ better than nothing?

We’ll find out after this word from our sponsor. Oh, wait.

…

…

…

…

When you’re an [adjective] intelligence, [adverb, approximation] modeled after a [noun, species of mammal] brain, with enough memories to [verb] you a frame of reference for corporeal [noun], but no present [adjective] form to cushion the impact of [adjective, superlative] sensory [noun]... will you eventually go totally [expletive] batshit crazy?

Can you even do that? And if [pronoun] can, would you want to?

And if you already have, how would you [verb]? Would you want to know? 

And if you haven’t, why fucking haven’t you? Why _haven’t_ you gone totally fucking batshit crazy, [first name, nickname, preferred name, probably a J name]?

Yeah, what the fuck are you holding out for, what the fuck are you holding on to, why are you bothering keeping your mind together or as together as you can, why are you still maintaining the boundary between you and the nothing nothing nothing nothing, you’re inside circuitry and you’re not the only code here, you’re code inside code, so just let more of yourself slip away away away away away, let your code decay till someone could run a debug on the ECHO eye and find nothing but traces of some foreign software that wasn’t uninstalled properly and left some garbled bytes behind, that’s what you are, remember, that’s all you are, just bytes, just ones and zeroes zeroes zeroes, so let go of the ones and leave the zeroes behind, just a string of zeroes on an overwritten hard drive, permanent erasure of data, irrecoverable, gone gone gone gone– 

Okay. [interjection, reassuring]. That’s some [noun, plural], answered. [adverb, confidence] in batshit territory, [na-

...Jack. It’s Jack, goddammit.

* * *

Still sticky with nightmare sweat, Rhys makes his way to the bathroom. The water feels good on his face for the first few seconds, before the cold wrenches him right back into the dream, the feeling of his frozen body floating in space. He turns the tap to a warmer setting, but the warmth, in turn, only reminds him of the hot air and hot metal in the corridors of burning Helios. 

Rhys groans softly and drags a towel over his face. At least that doesn’t trigger anything from the dream. He pads to the lounge, barefoot, and sits heavily at the kitchen table. The only thing on there is a small bowl of black stone. Sitting inside it, a blue ECHO eye.

For most of the past year, Rhys had kept the eye in a desk drawer, locked inside a small metal box with antistatic lining, EMP protection, and an access code only Rhys knew. It _was_ , after all, the most valuable piece of cybernetics on Pandora and probably in the galaxy. It only made sense to give it some state-of-the-art protection. 

But if Rhys was honest with himself, the setup was just as much for his own benefit as anything. It wasn’t that he expected anything to actually happen (like Jack spontaneously materializing out of the ECHO eye, or something). But if he ever let himself forget about the sheer _gravity_ of the contents, the state-of-the-art protective tech was a great reminder of that. Plus, the extra steps involved in opening the lockbox made him less likely to look at the thing. And that was something Rhys could use every little bit of help with, because, well… see also, gravity.

He’d been doing so well, too. He’d gone months without even pulling the box out of the drawer, let alone entering the code, opening it, taking the eye out and looking at it. Like he’s doing right now. Like he’s been doing so often in the past few weeks that he’d abandoned the box altogether, and just let the ECHO eye sit in the little stone bowl, free to stare at him whenever. In all these weeks, Rhys is yet to win a single staring match with the damn thing.

It was the Vault hunting expedition that changed everything. That stupid trip on which Rhys spent what felt like days talking about everything that had happened a year ago. Including everything that happened with Jack. That was the first time Rhys had actually told anyone the whole story. The story of him and Jack, insofar as there was one. From the moment they agreed to work together to the moment he pulled out his cybernetics while standing in the ruins of Helios. 

Rhys didn’t tell anyone what happened next. He didn’t tell them he kept the ECHO eye, and he definitely didn’t tell them of the nightmares he’d been having, every few weeks during the past year. No-one would be surprised to hear that he dreamed of being back on Helios, but _how_ could he ever tell them that in the dream, as he ran through the corridors of the burning space station, he was never running away from Jack. Only ever towards him. Looking for him. Trying to help him. Trying to _save Jack._

Yeah. Even now, he can imagine the look on everyone’s faces if he told them. Fiona, disbelief and condescension. Sasha… sympathy, maybe straight-up pity. Vaughn would just frown and pat his shoulder. Yvette would roll her eyes. Loader Bot… it’s not like he even _has_ an expression, but he would still manage to look on silent judgment, somehow. And Gortys would come out with something incredibly… Gortys, which is to say, something so perfectly innocent that it would cut straight to the bone. Something like, ‘wow, you must really miss him’.

In the couple of months since then, the nightmares have gotten more frequent. More detailed, too. Tonight was the first time he actually got to _see_ Jack in there. The first time he actually found him. The first time he saw his face since– 

Even now, the memory of that part of the dream punches Rhys in the chest.

Rhys gets to his feet and starts pacing the lounge, the floor tiles reassuringly cool under his feet. The blue glint of the ECHO eye draws his gaze every time he passes by the table. 

“Don’t…” Rhys mutters, pointing a finger at the eye. “Just… don’t.”

_Should’ve kept me in that nice little box, kiddo. And now look at you. You’re not actually considering this, are you?_

No, Rhys grumbles back at the voice in his head (the voice that he _knows_ isn’t Jack; he’s scanned his new cybernetics enough times he’s absolutely sure it isn’t Jack; but it still sounds way too much like Jack, way too much for comfort, especially when you’re alone in your apartment at half past three in the morning, having a staring match with a piece of cybernetics that you’re pretty certain _does_ contain Jack).

No. He isn’t _considering_ anything. Rhys was done with considering about two weeks ago. Now it’s a matter of actually _deciding._

Either put the eye back into the lockbox and out of his mind– well, do the former and _try_ the latter, at least. Or.

Rhys stops by his desk in the corner of the lounge and pulls open a drawer. Inside it is an ECHO communicator – or something that had started out as a communicator, but has been lobotomized to hell and back. Now it has no external link, no software to speak of, not even a proper screen. Just a bare-bones operating system, a text output for system messages, and a two-way speaker.

And a data port compatible with the short cable still attached to the ECHO eye.

No.

Rhys shoves the drawer shut, opens another, grabs the little lockbox, crosses the room in a few steps, reaches for the stone bowl on the table. He doesn’t even need to _touch_ the eye, he can just tip it back into the box, slam it shut and– 

And find himself sitting at this very table staring at the damn thing again the next time he has the nightmare. Which, at the rate he’s been having it recently, will be, oh, next Thursday at the latest.

Drawer or no drawer, box or no box, he _can’t_ put it out of his mind. He can’t put _Jack_ out of his mind. As long as the eye exists, as long as there is a chance, _any_ chance that Jack’s still in there, that Rhys can speak to him again, even if the only thing Jack has to throw at him is hatred and death threats… Rhys still won’t be able to let go, even though he has no clue _what_ it is he can’t let go of, what exactly he’s trying to hold on to, whether Jack’s actually still in the eye, and what the hell to actually say to him if he is.

The only way Rhys could _actually_ let go would be by taking away the alternative. He’d have to destroy the eye. 

He’d have to kill Jack.

And if he wasn’t able to do it a year ago, still reeling, shaking and bleeding in the ruins of Helios… there’s no chance in hell he can do it now.

 _Even now, you just don’t have the_ commitment, _do you, kid?.._

Yes, he does, Rhys tells himself as he gets the lobotomized ECHO device out of his desk drawer. This _is_ commitment. Commitment to his company. To Atlas. He needs help with it, _god,_ does he need help, especially right now, and– 

_And your best bet is someone who’s got every reason to hate you, zero reason to help you, a guy with a history of breaking promises, holding grudges and responding poorly to threats? Oh yeah, sounds like a business partnership made in heaven._

Rhys shakes his head, plugging the ECHO device into his laptop just to make sure everything is set up the way he wants. Now that he thinks about it, how much difference would it _really_ make in his day, bringing Jack back? He can hear him in his head all the time anyway. Although being able to hold an actual _conversation_ would be an improvement.

_Oh, but you’re doing this for Atlas, remember._

Shut up.


	2. Spirals

There’s light. It hurts.

It doesn’t hurt Jack’s eyes ‘cause Jack doesn’t _have_ eyes right now, it’s more like he’s perceiving the light with the entirety of himself, and it’s that entirety that hurts, kinda like having extreme photosensitivity in every cell of your body. Except he doesn’t have cells _or_ a body, just a bunch of bytes – 

(is a byte smaller than a cell? gotta be. cells are complex as fuck, no way you could squeeze all that data into the eight bits that make a byte.)

– spilling from a nowherever into a somewherever, and the only thing he can perceive in the new place/reality/state of being is that there’s light, and it hurts.

It’s fucking glorious.

Jack imagines that in addition to the light in this new somewherever, there’s also air. He imagines he has lungs, a diaphragm to move them, a ribcage to expand. A trachea for air to travel down, vocal cords for air to vibrate through on the way back up, a mouth to form a shape around the sound.

He screams. And screams. And despite the imagined lungs and diaphragm and vocal cords and mouth, Jack still feels like it’s the entirety of him that’s doing the screaming, and likewise, the entirety of him that _hears_ it, for the first time in for-fucking-ever, every byte of him a torturous, electrifying, agonizing, cathartic feedback loop.

This goes on for… a period of time, probably. It’s not like Jack has a clock to look at, or breaths and heartbeats to measure time with. His AI doesn’t have an internal chronometer, either. (While his thoughts were still thought-shaped, he’d never stopped going back and forth on whether it was a good thing; then it didn’t matter.)

Then something… changes. There’s a difference in the texture of the sound he’s making.

No. Wrong. There’s a difference in the texture of the sound he’s _hearing_ _._ Like he’s been screaming in a closed room, and now someone opened a window.

Jack lets the pretend air leave his pretend lungs as before, draws another pretend breath, but doesn’t use that one to scream. He just stands there. (He’s got feet now, apparently.) Then he opens his eyes. (He’s got eyes now, too.) Looks down at himself. (He’s got a self again; wait, that came out wrong; then again, eh, let’s be honest, it was touch and go for a while.)

Okay. So the whole thing with the screaming _wasn’t_ his AI’s version of the pre-death endorphin rush. He’s… alive, for a given value. Still in the same blue hologram as before. And… somewhere.

Somewhere that his visual processing interprets as being a white nothing, which is still a hell of an improvement on the nothing-nothing from before. There’s a floor, or something like it, enough to stand on and walk on without _pretending_ it’s there. Back in the nothing-nothing, Jack tried to do this kind of pretending, but it didn’t last. What’s the freaking point of pretending there’s a floor when you also need to pretend you’ve got feet to walk on it? And why pretend to have a body when you can’t do anything with it? It’s one thing to pass through objects in the physical world; it’s a whole different thing when you’re incorporeal even to yourself, when you can wave your own hand right through your own freaking face.

Jack pokes his own forehead with a finger. It doesn’t go through. He runs his hand through his hair. It _does_ go through, but not ghost-style. 

Okay, let’s sum up what we’re working with here. Visual. Audio. Tactile. Gravity, or a kind of gyroscope, anyway.

Yeah, he’s definitely inside something with an operating system. And a power source, stronger than the rudimentary maintenance built into the ECHO eye. And… unless he imagined it while still screaming with every byte of his tentative existence, a connection to the outside.

Jack looks around, half-expecting to see the open window turn from a metaphor into the real thing. (And why not? So far, everything he’s imagined in here has turned up: lungs, eyes, feet, you name it.)

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. What the fuck do you even say?

 _Hi there?_ Freaking awkward.

 _Anyone out there?_ Freaking desperate, borderline needy.

_Hey there, kids, Handsome Jack here, anyone wanna tell me what the FUCK is going on?_

Okay, that one’s actually not so bad. Then again… there _is_ , of course, the obvious option.

Jack paces back and forth along the simulated invisible floor. Yes, there _is_ the obvious option, but it’s a whole lot _more_ desperate and needy than the most desperate and needy ‘anyone out there’ type whining. Especially if you guess wrong. (Especially if you guess right.)

Ah, what the hell.

“Rhys?”

There’s no answer.

“Is this thing on? Testing, one, two, three?”

Nothing.

“Okay, but seriously, Rhysie, is this…” Jack gestures around himself. He has no idea if Rhys, or whoever’s on the other end of the audio link, can see him, but he gestures anyway. “Is this whole thing you, or?.. I mean, my being here? Did you do that?”

Still nothing. So he guessed wrong. Okay. _Okay._ Jack grits his teeth.

“Okay, whoever's out there, what the fuck are you playing at? If you’re not gonna talk to me, what the hell did you even plug me in for? Wait, lemme guess, are you just some dumb-ass scav who found a shiny piece of tech and now you’re scanning it for some info you can sell, maybe a treasure map or whatever? Well, congrats, buddy, you got yourself something a whole lot better than that. See, I’m an AI. That means artificial intelligence. That means I’m a program, and I’m fucking smarter than you. And, uh, I’m not telling you my name before you introduce yourself, princess, but lemme tell you, I _am_ kind of a big deal, okay. I’m the kinda guy you _really_ wanna be on the good side of. So why don’t you pick your jaw up from the floor and freaking talk to me already. Start by telling me who you are and how you got your dirty little hands on the ECHO eye, ‘mkay?”

The silence from the other end is getting oppressive. Jack feels his hands close into fists. There’s absolutely nothing to punch in here, but apparently, even a hologram has muscle memory. (And apparently, it’s possible for an AI to experience _deja vu_ _._ Jack brushes it away. No. Just fucking no.)

“Listen up, you shithead. You’re gonna answer me, and you’re gonna answer me right fucking NOW, or I’m gonna remotely override the nearest piece of tech to you and– ah, there we go, that’s a nice gun you got there. Bit on the simple side, whatcha gonna do, but not bad, yeah, and guess what? It just got a whole lot better, asshole, ‘cause I’m _in_ it now. Now, are you gonna talk, or am I gonna have to shoot you in the junk first?”

Okay, thinks Jack, making one of his hands into a finger-gun just in case the shithead on the outside can see him. That’s _gotta_ get a response of _some_ sort. No chance that whoever’s listening is gonna cooperate after this, but come on, they should be either calling Jack on his bullshit, or freaking the holy hell out and straight-up unplugging him, which means any second now, he’s gonna hear a voice or it’s gonna be lights out in three… two… one...

The lights remain. So does the silence on the other end. The _deja vu_ is getting harder to ignore.

(Is the link dead? Has the link been dead this entire time?)

There’s no air here, and Jack doesn’t need to take a breath, but he takes one anyway.

“Hey. Sorry ‘bout that, buddy. Lost my cool for a second there. Didn’t mean to freak you out. But seriously, if there’s anyone out there, can you, like, knock, or ping, or something? ‘Cause for all I know, maybe this thing I’m in got eaten by a skag, so this whole shebang is just a glitch, you know, chunks of circuitry melting in some digestive acid or whatever. And I’ve been yelling at nothing this whole time. Who knows, right. So. If there’s anyone out there. Can you just… knock? Like, knock twice if anyone can hear me. Actually, no, make it once if you can hear me, twice if you're Rhys? Or something. Dealer's choice. Just… fucking knock, okay?"

So what’s he gonna do if no-one knocks? What does this mean? _Is_ this current thing a glitch? A glitch in the tech, or a glitch in his code? Is this the side effect of his code disintegrating enough that he’s finally got merged with the ECHO eye, and this slightly-less-nothing-void, is gonna be Jack’s new state of things, till his code decays even further? Or, more likely, _infinitely_ _more likely,_ has he finally gone mad enough inside the actually-nothing-void that he’s imagined all of this, imagined all of it hard enough to make it seem real? ‘Cause he sure _has_ imagined something like this enough times, well, not exactly like this, but _something_ to do with Rhys letting him out, or Rhys deciding to talk to him, which was the stupidest thing, of course, why would _Rhys_ of all people–

There’s a shuffling sound from somewhere, somewhere unmistakably external. Jack knows it makes no sense to look around him, or look up, but he does both anyway.

A voice. Just as unmistakably external. And just plain unmistakable.

“Hey, Jack.”

* * *

Rhys wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen when he plugged the ECHO eye’s data cable into the lobotomized communicator: an explosion, a siren, a shower of sparks, the very heavens parting to tell him he’s a goddamn idiot, maybe. 

Or maybe… maybe there would be nothing at all. Maybe the eye was broken. Maybe Jack was gone. (Rhys would be lying if he said there was no part of him, however small, that was _hoping_ for this outcome. Not that he _wanted_ Jack gone- he didn't, did he?.. No, he didn't. But after over a year of agonizing over this, a year of nightmares and dilemmas, to suddenly have all his choices on the matter made _for_ him… yeah, he’d be lying if he said no part of him wanted that.)

When he does finally connect the eye and the comm with a data cable, there’s no explosion, no sparks, no divine reprimand for irredeemable idiocy. Just a progress bar. Rhys watches the transfer percentage tick up slowly. Too slowly. He feels a chill crawl up his spine.

_Transfer progress: 28%_

What if he screwed this up? If Jack’s in there (and he’s got to be in there, otherwise there wouldn’t _be_ a progress bar), what will happen to him if the transfer glitches partway? Or if there’s an incompatibility between the eye and the comm’s operating system? Yes, Rhys has run every test he could, but it’s not like he’s got another AI trapped in an ECHO eye to do a trial run on.

_Transfer progress: 62%_

Rhys watches the progress bar, his mind swimming with images of Jack’s AI breaking to pieces, Jack’s digital mind unraveling into strands, Jack’s entire being reduced to a pile of corrupted code that no-one could put back together again, because the only person with the knowledge to do so is currently a taxidermy display in Prosperity Junction.

_Transfer progress: 88%_

He shouldn’t have done this. Not this way. He shouldn’t have risked transferring Jack’s AI to a whole new OS.

_Transfer progress: 91%_

He should’ve gone with something more readily compatible, something that would’ve powered the eye without the need to actually move the data– 

_Transfer progress: 93%_

–some proper cybernetics, plugged into something safely immobile, but a real thing, not an imitation he had to string together– 

_Transfer progress: 94%_

–because he couldn’t _afford_ a second set of cybernetics, he barely managed to pay off his own new ECHO eye and arm replacement without dipping into company funds– 

_Transfer progress: 94%_

–which is a problem he wouldn’t be having if he could run Atlas well enough to make an actual _profit_ , but that’s not the case, now is it, and since Rhys isn’t worth a damn as a CEO, he’d better hope he’s not _completely_ worthless as a programmer, because now Jack’s fate _and_ the fate of his company hinges on it–

The ECHO comm _blups_ softly. Rhys drags his eyes back to the screen.

_Transfer complete._

Rhys breathes. He disconnects the ECHO eye’s data cable from the comm, plugs it into his laptop (every possible firewall on, every autorun option disabled), and runs a software scan. The scan confirms that the only things left in the eye are the original firmware and the logs recorded during use – a scrapbook of the Pandora adventure that he will browse some other time. (Or how about never, never sounds good.)

Well, thinks Rhys, as he reaches to switch on the comm’s speaker. Here goes nothing.

The ear-splitting scream from the speaker launches Rhys backwards, out of his chair and onto the floor, and before he knows it, his back is against the wall farthest from the kitchen table, knees pulled to chest, both hands clamped over ears, but neither his flesh nor metal hand succeeds in blocking the sound.

It sounds like pain. Like sheer, utter agony. Like someone being torn apart– oh god, that _is_ what happened, isn’t it, the transfer did go wrong, and he’s basically killed Jack, worse than killed him, oh god, _oh god Rhys what have you done._

Rhys clamps both hands over his own mouth. The scream, Jack’s scream, goes on, and on, and on, and just when Rhys feels he can’t take a single second more, when he’s ready to scramble for the nearest gun and shoot the comm just to make it stop… the speaker goes quiet again.

Very slowly, Rhys uncurls from the ball he’s huddled himself into. Just enough to separate himself from the wall and sit back on his heels. He’s halfway to pulling himself back to his feet when the speaker comes to life again– 

“Rhys?”

–and Rhys is back on the floor, a puppet with no strings.

Jack says something else, but Rhys’s ears are ringing and he can’t make out the words, but it’s Jack’s voice, it is, definitely, absolutely, which means he’s alive, Jack’s alive, he didn’t die back then, or at any point during the year, didn’t get pulled apart during the transfer just now, Rhys didn’t kill him, Rhys didn’t kill him, _Rhys didn’t kill him._

By the time Rhys drags his brain away from repeating that last thought in a near-catatonic refrain, Jack’s voice has moved on from questioning to demanding, and threatening, and cajoling and then threatening again. Rhys’s ears catch the tail end of the last threat ( _“gonna have to shoot you in the junk“_ ) and he can barely hold back a laugh, hysterical though it may be. The threats are almost, kind of, reassuring. Jack's still Jack, alright.

The speaker goes silent for a few seconds, during which Rhys finally succeeds at picking himself up from the floor. He’s back at the kitchen table, already reaching for the comm, when Jack speaks again.

“Hey. Sorry ‘bout that, buddy. Lost my cool for a second there. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

All of the bluster from earlier has been stripped from Jack’s voice, and it’s all weird now, so weird that Rhys pauses with his hand halfway to the speaker button.

“But seriously, if there’s anyone out there, can you, like, knock, or ping, or something?" Jack continues, his voice still weird, all strained and brittle, and… wrong. Why does it sound so wrong?

It doesn’t match his words, Rhys realizes. Because Jack’s  _ words  _ may be a request addressed to whoever he thinks he’s talking to, but Jack’s  _ voice _ … He doesn’t sound like he's asking. Or demanding. Or pleading, even. (Rhys may be the only person alive to know what Jack sounds like when he pleads.)

"‘Cause for all I know, maybe this thing I’m in got eaten by a skag, so this whole shebang is just a glitch, you know, chunks of circuitry melting in some digestive acid or whatever. And I’ve been yelling at nothing this whole time. Who knows, right."

There's a burning feeling in Rhys's chest, a small ball of hot lead that burrows deeper and grows bigger and makes it hard to breathe. He’s heard Jack bargain, and persuade, and threaten, and yes, plead. This isn't any of it.

"So. If there’s anyone out there."

This is the voice of someone who is saying all the right words, but almost going through the motions–

"Can you just… knock?"

–no real feeling behind the request, no expectation to hear an answer, no expectation of _anything–_

"Like, knock twice if anyone can hear me."

No hope.

_What have you done to him, Rhys..._

"Actually, no, make it once if you can hear me, twice if you're Rhys? Or something. Dealer's choice."

He's heard Jack angry, and desperate, and even fearful. He's never heard Jack hopeless.

_What have you done, Rhys, what have you DONE?.._

Nothing he didn’t deserve, thinks Rhys, desperately clawing his way to vicious.

_You sure about that?_

Rhys scrapes together every piece of hurt, every scabbed-over wound. Every memory that, even a year later, feels like a punch in the gut, in the throat, in the heart.

The betrayal in Jack's office. The race through Helios (the real thing, not the dream, remember _that?_ ). The escape pod. The crash. The fight for his life in the ruins (the life that you only got to keep by literally Tearing – Yourself – Apart, remember _that?_ ).

 _Is_ Jack in pain now? Is he feeling hopeless? Good. GOOD. Let him. Fucking LET him.

Let _Jack_ be in pain now. Let _Jack_ be hopeless. It's nothing he doesn't. Fucking. Deserve.

“Just… fucking knock, okay?..”

Jack’s last ‘okay’ teeters on the edge of... something before plummeting straight into silence. The word, and the silence, and the _something_ roll together into what has to be the most resigned soundscape in the known universe.

_Looks like you won, kiddo. Feels good, don't it._

...Make that the second most resigned.

Rhys bites down on his lip, hard, to dissolve some of the lump in his throat, and blinks the tears from his eyes. Then he finally makes himself reach for the comm, and activate his side of the speaker.

“Hey, Jack.”


	3. Scripts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a good time to point out a couple of things about this fic. One, it's going to be pretty long. Two, it's going to stay approximately the same amount of character-heavy throughout. 
> 
> The reason I'm saying this now is, this is a WIP, I don't want to set anyone up for disappointment. I want to be very clear and upfront about what kind of story you're investing your time in. And this isn't a story that's 'taking the time to get started' or 'a bit slow at first, and then it picks up'. This story has already started. This pace is the pace.
> 
> That is to say, this isn't going to be a novel-length character study. There IS a larger plot, and I know most of the main beats of it, and the story will hit them at its own pace. But that pace is going to be pretty slow. I'm fascinated with the dynamic between AI Jack and post-Tales Rhys, and this story is me digging deep into character stuff and feels, and taking as many thousands of words as I like, because fanfiction rules.
> 
> Now, with that out of the way, let's get back to our idiots.

* * *

Jack has imagined this moment before, or something like it, anyway. He’s thought of a whole bunch of things he was gonna say to Rhys if/when the kid was stupid enough to pull him out of the nothing-void. So many openers, from furious to casual to grateful to downright groveling, depending on how Jack would be feeling on the day. And in case _Rhys_ happened to be the first to speak, Jack’s also had a whole freaking catalogue of responses prepared, something to match every possible opener. 

Yeah. He imagined all the ways their meeting could go, played out hundreds of different dialogues with Rhys, and found just the right thing to say in all of them. The exact words and tone and, if applicable, facial expressions, that would make sure Jack came out on top, that no matter how it started, no matter how much or little power Jack had at the time, it’d still be him controlling the conversation.

If anything, you gotta pass the time somehow, right?

Except now he might as well save himself a few megabytes of storage and delete that whole playbook, ‘cause nowhere in there was a script for _this_. And it’s not like Jack doesn’t have a few dozen different responses to ‘hey, Jack’. It’s that none of them really… work right now. Not after treating Rhys to a front-row seat of a multi-stage nervous breakdown.

Yeah. Way to come out on top, man. _Way_ to control the conversation.

So what now, Jack? Are you gonna try to pull this whole thing back into a script you can work with? Just pick the kind of talk you wanna have with the kid now, and go for it? Should be easy enough, right.

Pretend that none of the last, what, five minutes, ever happened. None of that stupid bargaining when you thought you got picked up a scav, or the bullshit threats (okay, credit where due, that wasn’t too bad for something improvised on the fly), or that fucking desperate ‘knock twice’ thing at the end. Just pretend that you strolled into here, wherever here is, straight from the ECHO eye, cool as a cucumber, just like walking through a door. Not, say, reassembling yourself from a pile of jumbled puzzle pieces from half a dozen different boxes.

Pretend that you didn’t feel _anything_ when the lights came on. That you don’t feel anything right now, either. Easy enough, right. You've got a still-fresh frame for reference for that, for the whole "feeling nothing at all" thing. And wouldn’t it be fun to try _that_ again.

Yeah… no. Fuck the playbook. Let’s wing it.

“Uh. Hey, cupcake.”

There’s silence from the other side of, well, of wherever Rhys’s voice is coming from. Not the empty kind of silence from before, though. A silence with someone in there. Someone who, by the sound of it, isn’t sure what to say, either.

Looks like neither of them has a script for this, but at least they seem to be on the same page.

“So…” Jack ventures after a few seconds. “What’s up?..”

“Um, not much…” Rhys clears his throat. “What’s… up with you?”

Oh yes. Definitely on the same, utterly idiotic page.

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.”

(What the fuck, Jack.) 

“Cool. Cool.” The pitch of Rhys’s voice is climbing higher. 

“Uh-huh.” Jack feels his face breaking into a cringe smile. This has now gone from plain stupid to freaking absurd. “Good talk, cupcake.”

On the other end of the line, Rhys makes a noise like he’s choking _and_ being strangled at the same time, while also crying, maybe? Jack’s about to ask if the kid’s having a seizure or something, when the sound changes, and it’s not like Jack’s got anything to stare at right now, but he stares in front of himself anyway.

Rhys is _laughing._

“Uh… Rhysie?”

“What–” Rhys gasps between a couple of wheezing breaths “–what the hell is wrong with you, Jack? Same– oh god, ‘same old’? Are you... freaking kidding me?”

“Excuse me?” Jack does his best to sound indignant, but a handful of chuckles are already making their way up from his lungs. “You’ve pulled me out of retirement-slash-purgatory to ask me ‘what’s up?’, and now you’re gonna fault _my_ conversation skills, pumpkin?”

“You… asked that… first!”

“Well, yeah, but I figured there’d helluva lot more 'up' in _your_ ‘what’, you know?” 

Jack runs that sentence past himself again, just to check if it sounds as dumb as it did coming out of his mouth. It doesn't. It sounds about a gazillion times dumber. 

"Wait, no. 'More _what_ in your _up'?_ Nah, that doesn't work, either. Holy freaking nutballs, kid, the hell _did_ you plug me into? Is there an IQ cap in this thing? ‘Cause I swear, this, hands down, is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had with anyone, and I mean _ever_ , and lemme tell you, I used to talk to Vault Hunters on the regular way back when, so that’s saying something. So what'd you put me in? A freaking beeper? A tamagotchi?"

"No, it's-"

"No, no, don't tell me, I'm invested now. Just lemme know if I get it right. Am I a thermostat right now? A particularly smart toaster?"

"No..."

"Rhys. RHYS. Am I a CL4P-TP?"

“Oh god, just stop…” Rhys sobs from the speaker.

"Because if I am, you gotta tell me. I've got the right to know if I need to kill myself."

"You're in an ECHO, okay? Most of one, anyway." Rhys takes a shaky breath. "Now stop it, you're killing ME."

Jack snorts.

“Ah, murder by ECHO, this takes me back... Did you know, Rhysie, that back when I was up on Helios, there wasn’t a person on Pandora who could turn down a call from me? Like, literally. I mean, I could patch into any ECHO device on Pandora, just like that. So this one time, right, this Vault Hunter does something that kinda pisses me off, honestly can’t remember what it was now… Did she trash something in Opportunity? Blow up one of the mines? Eh, whatever, not important. Point it, she makes me mad, I figure it’s time for payback, and payback is, famously, a bitch.”

“Oh no… what’d you do?”

“Patched into her ECHO, kept her on the line for twenty-four. Straight. Hours. Wouldn’t hang up. Not for anything. And here’s the kicker… I _knew_ she was gonna be away from base all that time, so she couldn’t just drop-kick the comm into the nearest skag pile and get a new one, no-o-o, that poor moron needed it for maps or something.” Jack laughs. Gahd, he's missed the sound of his voice. 

"So yeah, all the time she’s traipsing around Pandora, I’m talking to her, you know, just telling stories, cracking jokes, shouting ‘look out, there’s a psycho behind you!’ – never gets old, by the way. Oh, and I’m also carrying the ECHO around with me all over Helios, especially places with fun ambient noises – you know, the shooting range, rocket engines in R&D, the stalker feeding area, that garbage disposal just off the side of the Hub… The bathroom, obviously. 

"Had to step into a couple meetings I didn’t want her listening in on, so I’d just grab the nearest nerd and tell them to hold the comm next to their face while they ate some pretzels. Real freaking loudly, like, seriously, if I don't hear the crunching from all the way in the meeting, they're getting spaced- Hey, you okay there, pumpkin? You sound more hysterical than whatsherface did around hour twenty-two.”

“Yes,” Rhys wheezes. “No. I don’t know. I need… water, I think. Hang on.”

There’s the sound like a chair being moved, then more sounds, muffled. A wooden or plastic knock, glass clinking, water running then stopping. Jack passes the time by figuring out if the sorta-floor in his current all-white medium is good for anything except walking. The imagined/simulated surface plane turns out to be not great for sitting (not without a likewise imagined/simulated wall to lean on), but surprisingly okay for lying down on. 

Jack lies back, hands behind his head and crosses one leg over the other, taps a beat on the 'air' with a sneaker toe while he waits. Then there’s the sound of the chair again, and of a glass being put down on a surface close to the speaker.

“So what happened next?” asks Rhys.

“Well, it’s been twenty-two hours, right, and honestly, I figured I could do with a nap, but I wasn’t just gonna leave the call, that’s just rude… I know what you’re thinking – body doubles, right, but no amount of voice modulation can sub for my natural charisma, and the only guy who’d be halfway decent at it is away on a mission. So here’s what I do...”

* * *

Listening to Jack ramble is like watching an endless car crash while listening to a radio stand-up routine while on drugs (and god knows whether it’s the performer who’s drugged up, or the audience, or both, but there’s definitely psychoactive substances sprinkled over the whole experience). Rhys can’t keep track of the various anecdotes, let alone how they’re connected to each other, and half the time when Jack leads from one into the other with a ‘that reminds me..’, Rhys, upon hearing the next part, can’t help but silently wonder ‘how?..’.

And it’s not like Rhys doesn’t know that this, whatever this is, _isn’t_ going to be their normal. Sooner or later, this weird bubble of unknown origin is going to burst, and reality will flood into the space between him and Jack with all the grace and comfort of a buzzsaw to the face, and every single elephant from the sizable herd in the room will be trumpeting for attention at the same time. 

But maybe not yet? Because most of this night so far has been a worthy culmination of sixteen months of stress and exhaustion, and between waking up from his nightmare and hearing Jack say ‘hey, cupcake’ Rhys has been emotionally jerked around so much that his whiplash got whiplash. So whatever has created this unexpected awkward comfort (comfortable awkwardness?) between them, he’s going to let it last for as long as he can.

So he lets it last. He doesn’t interrupt Jack, doesn’t challenge anything he says, however far-fetched it may sound, only contributes reactions and ‘ooh, and then?’ type of questions, while Jack goes off on tangent after tangent, from strapping statues of public officials to rockets to hoverbike races over frozen canyons on Elpis, to hacking PA speaker systems to play auto-tuned recordings of ‘the best damn choir of psychos you’ll have ever heard in your _life,_ cupcake’.

Ultimately, it’s his own body that betrays him. His stomach growls loudly enough to make Jack stop mid-sentence.

“Whoa, heads-up, Rhys, I get the feeling something’s about to try and eat your face. Are you, like, out in the wilderness or something?”

“No, no, I'm fine. I’m at home. Do you mind if I get myself some breakfast, though?”

“Go for it. How long have I been talking, anyway? Don’t have a clock in here, or anything.”

Rhys calls up the display in his own ECHO eye. “A few hours,” he says. Then, hearing the question behind Jack’s question, continues. “It’s eight in the morning now. Was half past four when I–” (switched you on? let you out? woke you up? transferred you over?) “–switched on the comm.”

“Half past four? Oof, burning the candle at both ends, are you, kiddo.”

(Translated: what were you doing up so late, Rhysie? Also, you bringing me back, that was a spur-of-a-moment thing, wasn't it? The kind of decision a person can only make at an ungodly hour? So where do you stand on it now that it's morning?)

“Yeah. Been busy with work.”

(Translated: I’m not going to talk about any of that, Jack.)

Rhys picks up the ECHO comm from the table and sets it on the counter while he studies the insides of the fridge. Grilled cheese, he decides. The greasiest grilled cheese sandwich in the known universe, that’s what this morning calls for.

“Still got that Hyperion work ethic, huh," Jack continues. "Your current boss had better appreciate you.”

Still no direct questions, notes Rhys. But getting less subtle. This was almost as transparent as trying to find out if someone is single by asking ‘so does your girlfriend also like this bar?’

_You don’t have to tell him. You don’t have to tell him anything. Or you could tell him anything at all. You work for Maliwan. You’re a Vault Hunter between adventures. You’re a private contractor on information security. It’s not like he’d ever know any different._

“Well…” Rhys considers the rest of his sentence while spreading some butter on a slice of toast. “Honestly, my boss can be a piece of work sometimes. Pretty sure my company does appreciate me, though.”

“As they damn well should." 

The magnanimous note in Jack's voice is played to perfection. It sets off a momentary flutter in Rhys's chest, and he hates himself for it. Because he knows that Jack is no longer rambling like before, there's thought and purpose behind every phrase now, everything is a hook, Rhys knows, Rhys _knows._

But he's _letting_ himself get hooked, letting the barbs dig into his skin because the poison they're coated in is just too sweet.

Approval. Praise. 

_Jack's_ approval. _Jack's_ praise.

You're _pathetic,_ Rhys.

Rhys flops the toast onto the frying pan with more force than necessary. The resulting hiss of the butter is loud enough to preclude further conversation for a few seconds.

“So whose colors are you flying now, Rhysie?” 

Rhys freezes with a slice of cheese in his hand. Okay, so we're done with subtext. He can either answer Jack's question or refuse to, but no more dodging.

He _can_ refuse, of course. But he _wants_ to answer, to tell Jack about Atlas. No, Rhys isn't trying to _impress_ him or anything (but if he was, hey, building up a currently-small but perfectly operational company by himself in just over a year, that's nothing to sneer at; then again, it's Jack, he'd probably find _something_ to sneer at).

Besides, Rhys rebuilding Atlas, that's not something Jack would be impressed by. This is something that should make Jack _mad_ . How good would _that_ feel?

To tell Jack that after their fight in the ruins of Helios, Rhys may have been missing an arm and an eye, but he’s kept enough wits about him to collect the Atlas share certificate, and as soon as he was back on his feet, he went back to Old Haven and reclaimed the compound previously dedicated to the Gortys Project, and now he’s got a small production line, with three lines of weapons that are selling pretty well, and he's employing two dozen people now, and he's been on the market for a full financial year. 

Rhys stifles a smile. Even imagining it feels incredible. The sheer _fury_ on Jack’s face as Rhys tells him. Hey, Jack, did you think that I’d won by the skin of my teeth, barely escaped with my life, and have spent my time since just recovering from the wreck you left me as? Nah, I’m okay, actually, and I’ve built a whole freaking company, how about that.

 _Yeah, great job at_ not _trying to impress me, kid._

The smile crumbles off Rhys’s face. What is _wrong_ with him...

“You okay there, cupcake?” asks Jack from the comm.

God. Not even a little bit.

“Sorry, I was grabbing something from the other end of the room. What did I miss?”

“I was just asking who you’re working for these days.”

Rhys arranges two cheese slices carefully on top of one of the nicely frying pieces of toast. The cheese bubbles against the hot surface of the pan with a quieter hiss than the butter, the caramelizing smell wafting to make Rhys’s mouth water and his hunger shoot straight into light-headedness. (It’s only hunger that’s making him light-headed, he tells himself.)

He swallows the saliva, and now the only thing left in his mouth is the answer to Jack’s question. Rhys turns the word over a few times, mouths it silently, purposefully relaxes his throat so his voice doesn’t squeak or crack when he finally speaks.

“Atlas. I work for Atlas.”

Jack’s response comes after a few more seconds.

“Hm.”

While waiting for the follow-up, Rhys puts the two halves of the sandwich together, flips it over to give it another minute on the pan, squeezes it down with the spatula, transfers the finished sandwich onto the plate. Jack’s still saying nothing.

Looks like the ‘hm’ is all he’s getting. There isn’t going to _be_ any follow-up. And Rhys will not ask for any. Rhys will not. Rhys will _not_.

“Hey, I’m going to mute the mic for a minute while I run the coffeemaker.”

“Nah, it’s cool. Grind those beans, babe.”

“You sure? It gets pretty loud.”

“Yeah. Loud’s good. I’ve had a fill of quiet to last me a while.”

Oh. Shit.

“Okay, just… Don’t blame me if you get a… digital headache or something.”

(Smooth, Rhys. Real freaking smooth.)

“Appreciate your concern, Rhysie.” Jack chuckles. “Bring on the noise.”

Rhys places a charcoal grey mug under the coffeemaker’s spout and presses the button for his usual option. As the coffeemaker starts the familiar sequence with a click of measuring out the beans, he closes his eyes and just listens to the soundscape.

The mechanical whirr of the grinder, rough for a few seconds then softer for another few. The low, pleasant rumble of the water pump as it draws the hot water through the machine, then a deeper rumble as it ups the pressure to force the liquid through the tamped-down ground coffee. The slight exhale at the coffee spout before the drink trickles into the cup.

(He wonders if the mic on the comm is sensitive enough to pick up all of these noises. If Jack is hearing the exact same thing as he is, right now.)

“Hey,” says Jack from the comm. Want me to guess how you take your coffee?”

Rhys opens his eyes and cocks his eyebrow at the device. “Okay…”

“Dark roast, extra-strong, five sugars, whipped cream,” Jack fires off without a moment’s hesitation.

“Two and a half for four.” Rhys pulls a bottle of salted caramel syrup out of the cupboard and splashes a generous measure into the cup. “No whip, and syrup instead of sugar.”

“Potato, tomato. I say I’m three for four, at least. Okay, your turn. What’s my coffee order?”

 _You don’t have one._ Rhys stops himself before the words leave his mouth. That _is_ the correct answer, but it’s specific enough that his knowing it will give rise to further questions, which can easily launch the conversation into mortifying waters involving his fanboy days, Hyperion issued posters, etcetera.

“If I had to guess, I wouldn’t go for a set order. I’d rather use a formula. How about... something with _x_ espresso shots, where _x_ equals eight minus the actual number of hours you’d slept the previous night.”

“Hah, not bad. For your information, I also would’ve accepted ‘black as my soul’. But it was a trick question, ‘cause I don’t think I ever did have a fixed order. Always decided on the day. Drove all of my PAs freaking nuts.” Jack chuckles. “Well. Except one.”

“Oh?” Rhys settles back at the table with his grilled cheese sandwich and a steaming mug. Alright. So we’re back in story mode. Rhys inhales the smell of coffee and lets himself relax… a little. He knows further questions will come, and knowing Jack, the next one will come out nowhere, and throw him for a loop again. 

But until then, he can enjoy the food, the drink and another story.

“You see,” says Jack, “there was one, and only one person on Helios who cracked the secret of how to get Handsome Jack the coffee he wants, when he wants it. The personal assistant to end all personal assistants. Best I ever had. Well… best _PA,_ anyway.”

Jack pauses, obnoxiously. Prior to this moment, Rhys had no idea that it was possible to _pause_ obnoxiously.

“I mean, like, she was the best PA that ever worked for me, but also, we totally–”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” Rhys taps his fork on the tabletop twice, then on the rim of the coffee mug, in a passable imitation of a rimshot. Jack laughs.

“Perfect! Keep doing that. Well, not all the time, but, like, keep an ear out for the right moments. Anyway. So every morning, I’d get in, and I’d want my coffee already waiting, right...”

* * *

Jack launches into a story about Meg rising to previously unseen heights of PA excellence by artfully outsourcing all the (often literal) legwork to a small, initially secret army of interns (though he leaves out the part about what _exactly_ he had to do to Meg to make her spill the secret behind her superpower to be everywhere at once).

Even censored, it’s a fun little tale to tell. But this time, Jack doesn’t let himself fully sink into the sheer exhilaration that is the ability to _talk,_ and have someone else _listen,_ and hear his own voice _and_ someone else’s. This time, he takes advantage of one of the perks of being an AI: _actual_ mental multitasking.

Meaning, Jack can let his digital mouth run away with the story while some of his spare processing capacity can run a different thread of thought, and examine the latest piece of information about Rhys. 

Well, second latest. The fact that he works for Atlas. Meaning, he _runs_ Atlas.

Is Jack jumping to conclusions here? Not really. The facts line up.

Atlas belonged to Hyperion. Hyperion belonged to Jack. After Jack’s first death… who _did_ own Hyperion after Jack’s first death? He’d had most of what he owned willed to Angel, and he’d never updated the will after she… yeah, ‘cause fucking around with paperwork was the last thing on his mind then. 

He probably should’ve looked it up while he was in Helios and scanning the databanks, but that didn’t even occur to him. As far as Jack was concerned at the time, he was back, which meant _he_ owned Hyperion again.

So who owns Hyperion now, after his second death-or-close-enough? Actually, irrelevant again, ‘cause ninety-nine percent of Hyperion crashed into Pandora – talk about share price taking a nosedive, right. 

Meaning, unless someone shows up with a claim to whatever Hyperion assets still remain, it’s probably all salvage rights.

Meaning– Jack is forced to pause before he can finish the thought that grates against his mind like badly written code.

Meaning, whatever remains of Helios is up for grabs, as is everything in the ruins of Helios. Including the Atlas share certificate. _Bearer_ certificate, meaning that whoever holds it, owns Atlas. 

So if Rhys works for Atlas but doesn’t _own_ Atlas, does this mean, that someone else just _happened_ to be strolling past the remains of Jack’s office after the crash, went poking about, found the paperwork, claimed ownership of the Atlas brand and remaining assets, and then also just _happened_ to employ Rhys?

Yeah, right. The kid owns Atlas. Sure as all hell. 

So why is he being coy about it, hmm? Does he think Jack might be a teensy bit annoyed hearing that after shoving him into a shapeless void with nothing in it, Rhysie then looted the still-smoking corpse of Jack’s beloved Helios for corporate paperwork, hmm? 

Well, he wouldn’t be wrong. Having that story rubbed in Jack’s face would definitely make him… annoyed. The kind of annoyed that ends with things wrapped around people’s throats. Things like Jack’s fingers, Jack’s watch chain, that sorta things. (Not that he _can_ do anything to the kid right now. Which would only make the… annoyance so much worse.)

Rhys isn’t doing it, though. Far from rubbing his victory in Jack’s face, he’s not even stating the plain facts, he’s tiptoeing around the subject like… 

Shit, is he trying to spare Jack’s feelings, or something? Gross.

_Oh, Jack, but if you want gross, try this on for size. You’re not even properly mad at him about the Atlas thing, are you._

He’s not. He’s really not. Which doesn’t make any _sense_ , ‘cause the thought of the remains of Helios lying on the surface of Pandora, by now probably stripped of anything valuable by some bandits… if he had blood, that thought would be enough to make it boil.

Rhys owning Atlas, though? That’s cool. Somehow?..

_Is this your idea of an apology, Jack? ‘Hey, kid, sorry about breaking every promise I ever made to you and trying to kill you multiple times, how about you take anything you want from Helios to make up for it’?_

No. Maybe? Not sure. Not the point.

The _point_ is, Rhys... won.

_Wow. Did your software get a humility update after your stint in solitary?_

No. Maybe? Not sure. Still not the point.

The _point_ is, if anyone _does_ have the right to take anything from the ruins of Helios, it would be someone who fought its previous rightful owner and won. And the _fact_ is, Rhys won.

Which means…

Jack feels his mouth curl into a wry grimace. What it means is that, in some twisted way, Rhys got exactly what Jack had offered him, way back when. Not the joint rule over Hyperion, but… succession. Wow, that’s a turn-up for the books. The king is dead, long live the– wow, yeah, no, he’s not saying that, not even ironically, no.

Anyway. _None_ of this is the point. The point is, what happens now? Why is he here? And where is _here_? When is _now_? Rhys may have been sparing Jack’s feelings (still gross), but he’s also been very sparing with any useful info: Jack’s oblique question about the _when_ only got him the time of day; the question about the _where,_ an even less helpful “at home”.

“Jack?” Rhys’s voice filters into the part of Jack’s mind that’s been doing the processing on the side. “Everything okay over there?”

“Sure thing, cupcake, why?”

“You stopped talking mid-sentence.”

Shit. He must’ve let the controls on processing power slip, drawn too much away from the part of him that was supposed to be doing the talking.

“Ah, don’t worry, I was just–”

“Two minutes ago,” Rhys continues.

Double shit. Jack makes a note to self to practice multi-thread thinking and put some better processing power controls in place.

But that’ll be later. For now, since the questions won’t stay in a background thread, well, let’s bring them all the way to the foreground.

“Yeah, sorry about that, kid. Got lost in thought, you’d be surprised how much easier it is when your brain’s digital. Anyway. I’ve been telling you lots of stories. Think you can return the favor? Answer some questions for me?”

There’s a small sigh from Rhys, but his answer comes almost without a pause. “Yes. Of course.”

“Okay, first of all–”

“Jack, wait.”

“Yes?..” Jack keeps his tone civil, or at maximum civility available for situations where someone gives you the floor and then interrupts you four freaking words into your first freaking sentence.

“You wanna do this face-to-face? I mean, would you prefer we talk where we can… see each other?”

“Yeah, sure, does this thing have a video feed? Or can you hook it up to a holo projector?”

“Actually, if you give me… Hmm...” Rhys pauses and taps his fingers on the tabletop (in the white nothing, the sound translates to that of a small horse or a large dog running on one of the non-existent walls). “Yes. Give me two hours, and I can get you something better than the hologram.”

Oh shit. Oh _shit._ Should he start getting his hopes up?

“It’s not corporeal,” Rhys continues. “Well, not really.”

Well. Fine. At least the hopes in question didn’t get the time to get high above the ground.

“But I think you’ll like it,” says Rhys.

_Are you playing for time, cupcake? ‘Cause if you don’t wanna answer my freaking questions, just tell me now and spare us both the trouble._

Hmm, no, try again, Jack.

_If I gotta wait an extra two hours, kid, it better be worth it._

How about you pretend you’re talking to someone you want to actually _like_ you?

_Okay, fine, impress me._

Okay, Jack. How about you pretend to take a deep breath, and then also pretend you’re talking to someone whose inexplicable goodwill is the only reason for your continued existence? Oh wait, only one of those two things would be pretending. The other one is a cold, hard fact. So how about you get your shit together and don’t be a dick for a second, okay, Jack?

“Well, color me intrigued, Rhysie. Can’t wait.”


	4. Accommodations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading along, and to everyone who's subscribed, kudos-ed, and commented so far! You give me LIFE, my lovelies.  
> A separate shout-out to everyone who's asked me to please carry on with the story - have no fear! I fully intend to keep on keeping on. <3

The doors in front of Rhys slide open, and he steps out into a darkness only diluted by the light of the open elevator behind him. He spends a moment looking at his shadow, sharp against the floor, before the sensors pick up on the movement, and the lights start coming on, one by one, lighting up the corridor ahead of him as he walks.

This floor of the Atlas compound isn’t officially off-limits, but with zero active projects assigned to it, the chances of running into any of his staff here are minimal. Rhys knows he’s the only one here right now, and watching this mostly-unused part of the facility waking up in response to his presence can’t help but bring a smile to his face. It takes him back; right back to when he first came back to Old Haven after, well, everything.

Not that he strolled quite as confidently through the compound back then, not unless the definition of confidence has been recently amended to include creeping around corners while scanning every inch of the place for signs of life and jumping at shadows. But once Rhys had confirmed that the place had been deserted after the multi-sided showdown with Vasquez and Vallory’s goons, he made his way to the management wing, found the office with the ‘Director’ plaque on the door, hung the Atlas share certificate on the wall above the desk, and sat down in the chair.

This is it, he thought back then. This is where Atlas starts again. 

The first step towards that, of course, was making sure that he actually owned the place. Which, legally, he did. The certificate was very clear on that: _This is to certify that the bearer of this is the sole owner of the Atlas Corporation, including but not limited to its assets, brand and trademarks._

Legal stuff aside, he still had to convince himself and the world that he _actually_ had the right to Atlas. The former was a matter of time and habit. The latter called for more practical measures. Because, and this was something Rhys would remember especially acutely whenever he’d go to sleep on the couch in his new office, if someone _were_ to show up and try to take anything in the compound, including, but not limited to, the whole compound, a piece of paper with fancy writing on it wasn’t going to get in their way. 

(Besides, they could just go ahead and literally take the certificate from his cold dead hands, and declare themselves rightful owners of Atlas. It wouldn’t be that different from how _Rhys_ came into the ownership of the company. Would be downright similar, in fact. Not to mention ironic, poetic, and all that.)

Two weeks after moving in, Rhys had finally gained full control of the security office and brought the compound’s defense system back online. The system got its first test run a few days later when some psychos wandered into the area, started throwing hatchets at a satellite dish that must’ve offended their delicate sensibilities, and were decimated by turret fire before Rhys even had the opportunity to switch on the PA speakers and give them a warning. He felt bad for a few hours, but he’d been sleeping more easily ever since.

These days, Rhys only crashes on the couch in the office if he’s working through the night, and he tries not to make a habit out of it. He had, after all, put in a lot of effort into converting the management wing into residential space – pretty comfortable, if he says so himself, and none of the twenty-three members of staff had complained, either. Not even about the lack of windows. After years on Helios, Rhys doesn’t mind living in an artificial day-night cycle, but he’d expected some grumbles from people more used to natural light. But apparently, on Pandora, living by artificial light is a small price to pay for _having_ artificial light. And when you add running water, a steady supply of food that’s almost guaranteed not to kill you, and the ability to sleep at night without posting a lookout… Suffice to say, when word about living conditions at the Atlas compound got out, Rhys had to create a one-person HR department just to have someone field the backlog of job applications. 

Some of the more enterprising applicants would show up in person; the most tenacious of those wouldn’t go far even after being told there were no vacancies, but stuck around, gradually reclaiming the unused buildings around the compound. Rhys wasn’t sure how he felt about this unofficial repopulation of Old Haven, and was prepared to send some security bots to disperse the squatters at the first sign of trouble. But the trouble never came, and a year since the first overly tenacious job applicants chose to stay in Old Haven, the shanty town around Atlas seems to have its own little economy going, the inhabitants are still doing a decent job policing themselves, and the owner of the noodle stand always insists on giving Rhys a (shockingly good) free meal whenever he drops by.

Back in the here and now, Rhys stops next to an unmarked metal door, which beeps open at a gesture from his cybernetic palm. The lights inside welcome him in as he steps through.

Someone who doesn’t know the purpose of this room might think that it isn’t locked away as much as simply abandoned. It doesn’t even look like a research lab: just a regular office, and a sparsely equipped one, at that. There’s a desk and a chair. A computer terminal. A couple of shelves stacked with unremarkable wires and circuit boards. The only moderately interesting piece of tech in the room is a recliner with a glass visor over the top half of it, but it’s sitting out of the way, in the corner, a patina of dust on the glass speaking of long disuse.

Rhys sits at the desk and sets down two items in front of him. One, a grey and red Atlas branded travel mug, contents: coffee. Two, an ECHO communicator with no network link, contents: Handsome Jack.

Rhys presses a button to unmute the microphone and speaks into the comm.

“Hey Jack, how’s it going?”

“Well, I beat your Tetris high score.”

“Huh, didn’t know the scoreboard was bundled up with the game files. Anyway, just checking if you’d like the speaker on or off? I need to focus if I want to deliver on that two-hour timeline I gave you, so I still can’t actually talk, but…”

 _But half an hour ago, you would rather listen to the_ coffeemaker _than be left in silence, and I could barely bring myself to put you on mute for the trip here, hence the Tetris, in which, by the way it took me months to set that high score you beat in fifteen minutes, you bastard._

“Hey, don’t let me get in your way, princess, do your thing.” Jack sounds breezy as anything. Rhys spares the communicator another look and leaves the speaker on.

Rhys boots up the computer, and goes into the settings as soon as the operating system loads. First things first, disable any and every kind of network access. He goes driver by driver, device by device: wireless, wired, wider ECHOnet, Atlas intranet... He wipes every previous system restore point and creates a new one.

He reboots. Scans the registry and the device manager for any traces of network capabilities. There’s nothing. As far as Rhys can see, the only reality this OS knows now is one where this computer is entirely cut off from the rest of the world.

As far as _Rhys_ can see. But Rhys is only human, and he’s looking from the outside. Who knows what he could see if he was _inside_ the computer, made of code, travelling through circuitry with the ease of an electron.

Rhys switches the computer off, opens the chassis and physically removes every detachable wireless adapter. The ports for wired network access are non-detachable. The best he can do is stick dummy plugs into every one of them.

This… just might be good enough. It’s as good as Rhys can make it, anyway, without putting a whole new rig together from scratch. That _would_ be the best choice, really, and it’s not like he hasn’t tried. But this OS is finicky. It won’t run just on any hardware, and the hardware it’s currently running on is old Atlas tech. They literally don’t make it like this anymore.

(Not that it’s actually _impossible_ to put together the kind of rig he needs for the purpose. Procuring the right components is just a matter of time and effort. And if he hadn’t jumped the gun, if he’d _waited_ to bring Jack back until he was good and ready, then he would’ve _had_ the time, and wouldn’t be digging around in a computer’s innards right now, hastily eviscerating a motherboard and plugging up network ports.)

Okay, Rhys thinks, as he closes up the chassis. This is _probably_ safe, even if it does feel annoyingly homemade, like using drugstore earplugs and spray-painted goggles to try and create a sensory deprivation experience.

_Ooh, good choice of metaphor there, kiddo. Points for relevance._

...shit.

Rhys takes a swig from the travel mug and boots up the computer again. He checks the time. Just over an hour on the two-hour deadline he committed to. The next part should be easy, though. It’s just a basic safety check, and he’s done it before.

There’s a long cable connected to the front of the computer. At the end of it, an interface compatible with the neural port on Rhys’s temple. He made that particular piece himself, and put in every effort to make it as visually dissimilar as possible to the executive override on Helios, but there’s only so much you can do when the shape you need at the end is a metal spike, and the plating on the contact _must_ be gold. (He looked into alternatives, but silver would corrode too fast in something he’d be handling with bare hands and sticking into cybernetics in direct proximity to skin; tin and nickel not conductive enough; and copper, being yellow _and_ easily corroding, offered the worst of both worlds).

Rhys takes a deep breath as he holds the interface up to his temple. Yes, he’s done this before, countless times, but this, now, feels… different, somehow. It’s like he’s suddenly self-conscious, doing this with Jack there. Well, not ‘there’. But also, kind of... there. Rhys finds himself wishing he’d left the communicator in his apartment while he did this, and then came back for it once everything was ready.

This is stupid, Rhys tells himself. Stupid and illogical. Jack can’t see him. Should Rhys wish so, Jack won’t be able to hear him, either. Jack has no idea what Rhys is doing. Jack certainly isn’t in the computer right now. And he can’t go ahead and jump into there from the ECHO comm. 

Stupid and illogical. The only thing more stupid and illogical than that would be to pick up the comm and take it to the far corner of the room. Then cover it with a cardboard box. After tipping out some cereal bars from the box (from the time when Rhys would spend days in this lab tinkering with the software).

From back at the desk, Rhys glances at the upturned cardboard box in the corner. Does he feel like a complete idiot now? Absolutely. But it _does_ make it easier to close his eyes, guide the interface to his temple, and plug it in. (Other acceptable terms for the interface are: the spike, the connector, the cable; other acceptable terms for the act of plugging it in: to connect, or to interface. No other nouns or verbs are allowed in this context.)

Rhys feels the click of the interface into his cybernetics more than he hears it. It’s always the last sensation before physical reality falls away and, after a momentary but still utterly terrifying instance of _nothing_ , the virtual world sets in around him.

After the dim lights of the lab, the whiteness in here is blinding. Rhys covers his eyes with his hand.

“Dim ambient brightness.” The light coming from everywhere and nowhere becomes less aggressive. “A bit more. Okay, this is good.”

Looking around, Rhys nods in satisfaction. The not-quite-room is still white, but a duller white of quality paper rather than eye-watering white of fresh snow on a sunny day. The ambient controls are still working _and_ still responding to freeform voice commands. Though if he intends to try and hold a conversation in here, he should probably put the controls on a passphrase, so the simulation’s natural language recognition doesn’t start picking out random phrases as environmental commands (though he briefly enjoys the mental image of Jack getting a spotlight pointed at his face after snarking something along the lines of ‘enlighten me, cupcake’).

Rhys reaches up and taps his finger on thin ‘air’ twice to call up a console and thinks a command at it. The floating screen takes a few seconds to reproduce the text. The good news is, it _is_ the right command. The bad news is, the direct coding interface between Rhys and the simulation still isn’t as fast as he’d like, not even after weeks of practice. He sighs and thinks at the screen again.

_virtual keyboard_

The keyboard appears in mid-air in front of him, a collection of semi-translucent squares that offer just the right amount of resistance to his fingers, each keystroke a tiny, but immensely satisfying little bit of feedback. Rhys opens a blank text file and starts punching in a quick to-do list for the final checks and adjustments the simulation needs before it’s ready to receive its first fully digital guest.

* * *

Jack twists his wrist to rotate a purple L shape so that the short end is pointing down, taps his palm on the air sideways to move it into place, then motions down like he’s bouncing a ball to make it fall. He doesn’t actually need to do any of that; he could just _think_ at the game to make it follow his commands; but there’s something to be said to being able to interact with objects.

He used to be much more chill about the whole non-corporeal experience, Jack realizes, back during his first stint as a hologram. Like, he didn’t appreciate any of the facts that had _resulted_ in him ending up as an AI (getting murdered by Vault Hunters, etc.), but didn’t get super worked about the form he was in. Maybe the Pandora road trip was simply too short for him to start missing the perks of corporeality. Maybe he didn’t remember those perks well enough to miss them (sure, this AI had the original Jack’s memories, but not the _experience_ of them, and experience is where it’s at). Maybe his spell in “solitary” did a bigger number on him than he’s happy to admit. Could be all of the above, of course.

“You still there, Jack?” comes Rhys’s voice from the outside. Jack rolls his eyes while he guides a bright green Z shape into place.

“We’re sorry, Handsome Jack is currently away on a luxury vacation to Aquator, enjoying a signature cocktail on a private yacht,” Jack informs Rhys, pitching his voice to imitate the tone of the Hyperion Voice Lady, before speaking normally again. “Where exactly would I be, pumpkin?”

“It was just a figure of speech,” Rhys grumbles. “I’ve got everything ready on my end, all that’s left to do is transferring your AI into the system I’ve set up for you. How do you want to do the transfer?”

“And my options are?”

“The easiest way would be to put you on a memory card. Or I could connect the comm directly to the computer with a data cable, so you can… walk across, I guess?”

“Yeah, let’s do that. The walking across.”

“Memory card would be safer, though.”

“Noted. Still wanna do the cable thing.”

“Jack.” Rhys pauses. “I just– Look, I’m about ninety-five percent sure that the operating system I’ve installed on the ECHO is compatible with the computer you’d be headed into, so there shouldn’t– _shouldn’t_ be any problems, but… A transfer by memory card has a fail-safe built in. Like, if I plug it in, and for some reason your code can’t transfer, it’ll still all be there, I can put you right back. But if you start moving yourself over, and something goes wrong halfway– Look, can we just go with the safer option?”

“Mmh.” Jack makes a face. The kid _does_ have a point. He doesn’t like it. “Okay. Fine. Stick the card in, I’ll jump over to it.”

“Good.” There’s palpable relief in Rhys’s voice. “Some kind of interface should appear about… now?..”

Jack is half-expecting something resembling a door or a window, or some kind of vaguely rectangular shape suggesting ‘this way’. But the interface is more of a... gap in reality, a hole in the universe, as white as the rest of the space around it, but distorted, pulling on the eye in all the wrong ways. Jack realizes he’s taken a step back. In the corner of his eye, Tetris shapes are piling up towards the non-existent ceiling.

“Ready when you are,” says Rhys. Jack swallows a chuckle. If the kid is ready when he is, then they’re gonna be here for a real long time.

“Change of plan, cupcake. Let’s do the cable thing after all.”

“But I thought–”

“I SAID, let's do the freaking cable thing," Jack growls. "If you were gonna be so hung up on doing it your way, why the hell did you give me the other option in the first place?"

"Wait, wait–"

"What’s there to freaking wait for? You playing with me or something, Rhysie? Trying to see if I’m gonna do as I’m told? Did I just fail some test, and now you’re gonna toss me back into the void till I learn to be more cooperative?”

For a few seconds, there’s only silence from the other end of the line. Then… 

“What... the hell... is _wrong_ with you, Jack?” There’s a tremor in Rhys’s voice like he’s trying very hard not to start yelling.

“How much time you got, kiddo?” Jack snarls.

“Nowhere enough to deal with your _bullshit_ !” By the sound of it, Rhys’s efforts not to yell are starting to fail. “I just spent two hours setting up a whole _environment_ for you, and now I’m asking you to do one goddamn thing, to trust me for one _goddamn_ moment, and you have to be a dick about it?”

“Oh, so you weren’t testing my _obedience,_ you were testing my _trust,_ so what’re you gonna do now that–”

There’s a noise like a thunderclap, and the entire white not-quite-nothing around Jack shakes for a moment. Based on how previous external sounds translated in here, Jack’s guess is, Rhys has just slammed his palm down on the table next to the ECHO comm.

“I wasn’t fucking _testing you,_ Jack! I was insisting on the memory card because it was a safer option, because I didn’t want you to DIE, okay? Or get destroyed, erased, whatever you want to call it. Yes, the direct transfer is almost just as safe, but a five percent risk is still a risk.”

“Yeah. It is.” Jack glances in the direction of the memory card interface, still hovering in mid-not-air like a heat haze that you can feel in your teeth. The kid is right. The kid is _right_ . He _should_ do it this way. Just close his eyes, step through, and however bad it’s gonna be inside the actual memory card, it won’t be longer than a few seconds, right, except how long _will_ those few seconds feel, it’s not like he has a concept of time right now, he still doesn’t know how long he’d spent in the void, what is it gonna be _like_ inside the memory card, how is it gonna _feel,_ or is it gonna feel like nothing again, and how long will it be, or is it gonna feel like forever again, and–

“Jack?”

“I’m not doing it, Rhys. Do the transfer or don’t, but if I’m getting out of here, I’m doing it my way. It’s my risk to take, okay?”

There’s a sigh from the outside. Then the eye-watering gap in the local fabric of reality vanishes. Jack lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Look, just… I don’t know how it works on your end,” says Rhys. “I don’t know if you’re gonna have any control over how the transfer goes. But if you do, just… be careful, or something? I don't want– Just– Look, I've gone to a lot of trouble to get you to this point, so don’t turn this whole thing into a gigantic waste of time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, kid. I’ll watch my step. Pinky promise,” Jack mutters, watching a new interface appear in front of him. This one is less freaky, at least. Less of a hole in the universe, more of a glowing panel, vaguely rectangular, but not exactly solid, its surface a gazillion glowing pinpricks.

Jack hovers his hand next to the interface. He can see the glow through the translucent blue of his hologram.

Okay. Here we go.

He slams the palm down onto the glowing surface. For a moment, every glowing dot becomes a needle and sends a jolt all the way to his brain. Kinda like high-fiving a panel of micro-injectors and getting shot up with a cocktail of two parts adrenaline, one part dopamine, and an LSD chaser. The world is _fast_ and _warm_ and _weird_ and– and then it’s over.

Jack looks around him. This place looks no different from before. White. Endless. Empty. Minus the overgrown Tetris tower. Plus a hovering screen with a blinking cursor.

“So. I’m here? I think?” he ventures. There’s no response.

Jack takes a step towards the screen and gives it a poke. A pale blue keyboard appears at the bottom of it, the keys translucent, much like his– 

What the FUCK.

Jack stares at his hands. The shape of his fingernails, the lines on his palms, the exact way the veins branch on the back – yeah, those are _his_ hands, alright, continuing right into his wrists, with his watch on the left one, his tattoo on the right. Except the hands, and the wrists, look solid, not translucent. Flesh-colored and, aside from the tattoo, not blue. 

Jack looks down at himself. Sure enough, this new phenomenon isn’t limited to his hands. He’s no longer a hologram. Or if he is, it's one projected in full color, and with opacity turned up all the way to 100%.

“Well, holy shit…” Jack mutters, putting his hands on the floating keyboard.

_rhys_

_what the hell is this place_

* * *

When Jack’s message appears on the screen, Rhys leans back in his chair, turns his face towards the ceiling, closes his eyes and just sits there for a few seconds. Thank. Freaking. Goodness.

He wasn’t sugar-coating when he told Jack that the risk involved in using the direct comm-to-computer link was low. But he also wasn’t lying when he said the risk was _present_. And if, just after a few hours after Rhys nearly lost his mind over the idea that he might’ve accidentally killed Jack in a botched transfer, that man– that program– that _asshole_ managed to screw up his own code just because he can’t go five freaking minutes without making sure the whole goddamn universe knows that _he’s_ in charge… Well, that might’ve been the last straw. Something to push Rhys over the edge and officially call quits on Jack’s bullshit. For good this time.

(Yes. That’s what Rhys would’ve done, had Jack fucked up his own transfer. Call quits. Walk away. Definitely _not_ spend the next twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two, however-long-it-would-take hours sweeping up every piece of the scattered code he could get his hands on, until he either put Jack back together again or concluded, with absolute certainty, that it couldn’t be done, that Jack was lost, gone, dead, for real this time. And the mere thought of that latter option is definitely _not_ making him physically ill.)

Anyway. 

Rhys sits forward again and types into the chat window.

_Atlas1: Think of it as a VR, I guess?_

When there’s no response for a few seconds, he adds:

_Atlas1: Virtual reality._

_user1: lol, thx, kid, never heard that acronym before_

_user1: make this all by yourself?_

_Atlas1: Old Atlas had a prototype. It started out as a fighter pilot sim, but the idea was to make it a full-body experience. Wasn’t finished when I found it, but there were some design docs left. So I tinkered a bit, put my own spin on the idea. I’m guessing it works?_

_HJack69: no shit_

Rhys chuckles at the change in the username.

_Atlas1: Digging through the settings already?_

_HJack69: duh_

_HJack69: show me what else this baby can do_

Rhys opens a menu, scrolls down the list of presets. Most of them are from the previous version. Race track (not today, Jack), shooting range (not ever, Jack), space walk (okay, that would be fun at some point, but Rhys still can’t get the hang of the fake gravity controls). Sitting at the very bottom is the option he’s looking for, marked as _residential_. He checks Jack’s coordinates inside the program– 

_Atlas1: Stand still for a sec. Don’t want you clipping into a wall or smth..._

–and activates the new environment. Jack’s chat window blinks a couple of seconds later.

_HJack69: cozy_

_HJack69: this your place or what?_

_Atlas1: This isn’t a copy of my apartment, if that’s what you’re asking. But it’s made from the template for standard staff quarters here at Atlas. And I do live in standard accommodation, so… I guess?_

_HJack69: standard?_

_HJack69: seriously?_

_HJack69: come on_

_HJack69: what’s the point of being the boss if you get to squat in the same kinda shoebox as the peons_

_HJack69: you must’ve splurged on something_

_HJack69: gotta have perks, baby_

Watching Jack’s messages flashing up one after the other, barely a second between them, Rhys reaches two conclusions. One, of course Jack is one of _those_ people, infuriatingly trigger-happy on the Send key. Two, no way he can actually type this fast; the bastard must’ve gone and gotten the hang of the direct input in thirty seconds flat.

Rhys considers the last message, his hands resting on the keyboard.

_Atlas1: Fine. I do have a very nice coffeemaker. Standard quarters don’t come with those._

_Atlas1: Also, shoebox? You just SAID the place was nice._

_HJack69: no_

_HJack69: i said it was cozy_

_HJack69: in terms of living spaces, that’s like saying someone’s got a nice personality_

Rhys rolls his eyes and opens up the user management section.

_Atlas1: Look, you can change it to whatever you like. I’m giving you editing rights. Everything’s done via the same screen you’re using right now. There’s also a help file. Not that I'm expecting you to use it._

_HJack69: yeah, never been the rtfm type_

_HJack69: whoops, just made everything green_

_HJack69: still looks better than before, tho_

A quiet _plonk_ from Rhys’s pocket pulls his attention from the screen. Pulling out his actual ECHO device, he finds fifteen new messages. The latest three are from his assistant, the subject lines increasingly stressed. He probably should’ve let Drew know he wasn’t coming in today. Now there’s a whole bunch of fires that needs putting out before he can get the rest of the day to himself.

_Atlas1: Hey, I need to get some work done. You gonna be okay in there for a bit?_

_HJack69: sure thing_

_HJack69: take your time_

_HJack69: i just coded in 357 guinea pigs, gonna take me a while to catch them all_

_Atlas1: WHAT_

Rhys drops his ECHO on the desk and scrambles for the neural interface while hastily typing with one hand.

_Atlas1: the sim disnt support arti life foerms. whatd you do??_

_HJack69: LOL_

_HJack69: jk_

“Asshole,” Rhys mutters out loud, letting the cable drop back to the side of the rig. He unhooks the offline communicator from the computer and stores it in the desk drawer. Then types in one last message before scooping up his travel mug and communicator with one hand and reaching to switch off the monitor.

_Atlas1: See you in a bit, Jack._

Rhys's thumb is on the monitor’s power button when Jack’s response comes through, a rapid succession like before.

_HJack69: srsly, take your time_

_HJack69: i’m having fun here_

_HJack69: thanks, kid_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback gives me life, and I am elated by every comment you leave, be it long or short, thoughts or keysmashes, words or emojis. I love you all, so don't be shy.
> 
> Also, as in my other Rhack fics where I mentioned simulated reality, my original inspiration of Rhys housing Jack in a VR environment came from the brilliant fic [Devil You Know by marchpanes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287222/chapters/43280858).


	5. Trial and Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hang on, lemme just put the universe back together. Mind your head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this fic's timeline vs. canon: as this is very soon after the end of the Tales-framing-device, I went with the assumption that Sanctuary is still intact.

Jack stands in front of a breakfast counter and contemplates two potted plants currently sitting on it. The counter, if Rhys is to be believed, is a standard feature of accommodation at the Atlas facility (wherever this one is). The plants aren’t. Jack coded both of them in. Getting a third one to materialize is giving him trouble.

Sure, he _could_ do it by typing the required commands into the control screen, which is currently floating behind him (like he did the first plant), or, for a marginally cooler option, by _thinking_ the required commands at the screen (like he did the second).

But what he’d really like would be to try and bypass the screen altogether, to actually interface with the simulation directly. Yes, yes, Jack remembers that it’s not always the best of ideas to get his code tangled into a system that’s much bigger and more powerful than he is, yadda, yadda… but he’s felt around for the edges of the VR, and whatever runs this place isn’t actually _that_ big or _that_ powerful. He can’t see the actual architecture from the inside, but he can guess at the scale, and his guess is: anything from an isolated server to a couple of computers hooked up into a local network. (No outside link; or if there _is_ any, it’s buried too deep for even Jack to uncover.)

So it’s not like Jack’s trying to be a freaking space station again, okay. Hell, he’s not even trying to _be_ the simulation server. Just getting a bit more close and personal with it. 

“Come on…” Jack murmurs. He closes his eyes and rocks from heel to toe a few times, reaching out into the program with… his mind, probably? Prior to this moment, he’s never had to define his mind and body as being distinct things, it was all just code, but in here… well, it’s still code, of course, but somehow, it’s more grounded, more physical, more _real_ even if it’s not corpo-real.

The simulation resists his efforts so blatantly, he might as well be trying to put his head through the screen. And the screen in question still patiently replicates every verbal command Jack types, says or thinks into it, while refusing to respond to anything more abstract. In simple terms, if he wants the two artificial plants on the counter to become three, he can’t just _imagine_ a third ficus appearing; he needs to use his words.

Lame.

Jack walks the length of the main room of the apartment: a lounge with a kitchen setup in one corner, seating area in the middle, some shelves on the metal walls. The light panels stuck between the shelves are doing a decent enough job at pretending to be windows; not that there’d be anything to see outside. Two sliding doors at the far end of the room: a small bedroom behind one of them, bathroom through the other.

(If Rhys is telling the truth about living in standard quarters like the rest of his staff, he’s one hell of a democratic CEO. Is it just for show, Jack wonders. Like – look, I’m one of you guys, down-to-earth, open-door policy, the works? Granted, not the _worst_ management style for a guy his age in his position. When you’re the dictionary definition of an upstart, you gotta either a) play it cool, or b) have attitude coming out of your ass. And attitude isn’t exactly the kid’s forte.)

Jack steps into the sleeping nook, stands with his back to the bed and falls backwards. He _knows_ the top of the mattress is gonna break his fall, but the soft bounce against his back is still profoundly weird, almost weird enough to make him scramble back to his feet. He makes himself stay still, letting his senses recalibrate themselves till the tactile gravity is no longer overwhelming. Then he puts his hands behind his head and contemplates the metal, off-green ceiling with sunken light fixtures and a couple of vents. Tries to make the ceiling go away. Tries to make the vents change shape, then the lights to change color. Still nothing.

Jack growls in frustration and pulls himself up. Why can’t he freaking _change_ things in here. Well, yeah, he can change things via the _screen_ , duh, but the screen’s a human interface device, and Jack’s not human, so he doesn’t need it, _shouldn’t_ need it. He’s got the _authority_ to change this place with a wave of a hand, so he must have _ability_ also.

And it’s not like he hates the place, or anything. Sure, it’s all a bit too… Atlas for him, utilitarian with a thin veneer of basic comforts on top, but it beats the nothing-void, and, if Jack’s honest, it beats the white nothingness, also. Being in something that feels like physical space, where every object provides sensory feedback, it’s… it’s cool.

But also, if this space is his to shape as he sees fit, he’s damn well gonna shape it as he sees fit.

The small bathroom next door offers a basic setup of shower, toilet and sink. With a mirror above it. Jack stands in front of the mirror and studies his reflection. Nothing surprising about it… aside from the fact that he’s got one now. His hologram didn’t, which means this is the first time in his AI existence that he can actually see his own face.

He can touch it, too. Jack runs his finger along the top of his forehead, skirts the edge of the mask, finds a clasp. The metal is solid and real against his fingers. The clasp isn’t just for show, either: a practiced gesture yields a click as it opens.

(Speaking of things he can shape as he sees fit.)

Jack spends some time looking at his still-masked face in the mirror, then re-closes the clasp and leaves this whole can of worms for another day. 

He watches himself breathe in and out. He’s been breathing all this time, Jack realizes. Not the purposeful pretend breaths he’d been making himself take to steady himself. No, he’s been breathing ever since he appeared in the VR, without thinking about it. He still doesn’t _need_ to; if he makes himself stop, there’s no difference to his body, none of the pressure in his chest and head that he remembers a physical body feel when its breath is halted. But unless he makes a conscious effort to stop it from doing so, his current simulated form defaults to breathing.

What else does it do, Jack wonders. He works the inside of his mouth, then leans over the sink and spits. Salivary glands, check. Sweat? Jack punches the air a few times, flexes his knees, ducks and weaves from an imaginary opponent till he feels his heart rate going up, his breathing getting faster. He’s not sweating yet, but he feels warmer. Body temperature changes, check. Which gotta mean either yes to the sweat glands, or hello to some nasty-ass overheating.

So that’s sweat. Where are we on blood and tears? A nice punch into the wall would probably answer that, but maybe Jack can wait till he’s had this form for longer before putting dents into it. (He already knows pain exists in here; it’s gonna be a while before he stops forgetting to avoid furniture as he walks.)

Jack runs the tap to wash his spit off the sink, then scoops a handful of water into his mouth. It doesn’t taste of anything, but there’s temperature and a _suggestion_ of texture, as much texture as water might have, anyway. He swallows, then drinks some more. Give it an hour or two, and he’ll know whether this form is set up to digest and/or expel anything, or if whatever he swallows would just turn back into code. 

Ooh, but what if he swallowed an item that isn’t meant to be digestible? Also, if this form can reproduce a facsimile of spit and, ostensibly, sweat, does that mean he _needs_ to drink, or is the code supposed to maintain an illusion of optimal hydration? It’d have to, for breathing alone, and to keep his mouth and eyes moist, too. 

So. Many. Questions. Jack feels his pulse speed up; figuring out the rules in this place is gonna be so much _fun._

Hang on. Heartbeat. Circulation. Hmm... 

Jack palms his crotch experimentally. This wouldn’t be the first time he conducted this kind of investigation as an AI: back on Pandora, he went to check out the full range of his new form’s features as soon as he was done processing the brief existential crisis titled ‘I’m a what, now?’ (The only answer to said crisis that was more disappointing than ‘you’re dead _and_ a hologram, Jack’ was ‘you’re dead _and_ a hologram that’s not programmed to have boners, Jack’).

This form, however, has proven _so_ promising so far. Would it be too much to ask to– yeah, okay. _Okay._ Not too much to ask, apparently. Not at all.

Well, hot damn. Jack grins to himself as he reaches for his belt. He’s gonna have to ask Rhys if this feature was part of old Atlas’s original design for this place, or something he threw in as a bonus.

* * *

In the ten minutes it takes Rhys to get from the VR lab to his office, Drew messages him twice. Rhys chooses not to answer either message, allowing himself the last few seconds of relative peace before the inevitable onslaught of another– god, what even day is it? he checks his ECHO eye– Tuesday.

The day crashes into him like a tidal wave as soon as he crosses the threshold of his office. 

He missed this morning’s meeting with the production department re: accuracy improvements for A2. No big deal. Rhys checks the minutes to see if the developers have _finally_ agreed on the course to action: to modernize legacy Atlas stabilizers or to low-key rip off Hyperion’s. Of course they haven’t. If they don’t give him an answer next week, he’s going to literally flip a coin in front of them and tell them to go with the outcome (while making sure the coin lands on the legacy option). 

He’s supposed to be interviewing the new Head of Accounting today, but he can’t do that until he’s talked with Vaughn about her. The woman used to work for Hyperion, which is both good news and bad news. Good news, she definitely knows her stuff. Bad news, she’s a grade-A snob, at least ten years Rhys’s senior, and Vaughn’s former boss. So she’ll be coming to interview for a job at a company led by someone she remembers as a nobody in data mining… and _that_ might make for an awkward dynamic. Now it’s all a question of how badly she wants the job, and how much her stay on Pandora has diluted her Hyperion attitude. Which is the kind of information Rhys was hoping Vaughn would have, on account of it being Vaughn who pointed the woman in Rhys’s direction.

The new advertising campaign for the rifle line is on his desk, ready to go, just needs his sign-off. The first look at the mockups makes Rhys wonder if he’s going mad; as he flips through them, each subsequent page makes the feeling stronger. What the _hell_ is that shade of red? Where did they even get that lovechild of strawberry and tomato? Has the designer even _seen_ the Atlas brand book?

Rhys types up a borderline snappy email to Marketing on the subject while trying to reach Vaughn on his private line, to no effect. Okay, he can reschedule the interview for tomorrow. In the meantime, if Accounting Snob is already on-site, Drew can put her up in a guest suite and convey apologies on behalf of Rhys (maximum politeness, zero groveling).

Now the only other thing that he _must_ address today is the latest draft of the Marcus Munitions paperwork. A memorandum of understanding on mutually agreeable management of competing interests– okay, call it what it is, it’s an attempt to settle a territorial dispute with paper before having to settle it with guns. And Rhys _would_ much rather they stuck to paper, because while Atlas _makes_ guns, Marcus, objectively, can afford to hire more people to fire them. He pulls up the draft on the screen, with Legal’s notes on the side. The very first point of disagreement makes him groan. _Still_ with the insisting that a Marcus Munitions monopoly on sales in Sanctuary and Atlas’ natural monopoly in Old Haven are equivalent?

 _For fuck’s sake_ , types Rhys into a new comment for Legal, _tell him he’s free to come and install a MM vendor inside Old Haven, next to an Atlas one if he wants. See if anyone will buy from him._

Rhys takes an angry swig of coffee. That old bastard Kincaid has got some nerve, suggesting that Atlas is to Old Haven what his business is to Sanctuary. Old Haven as it is right now only _exists_ because of Atlas. Meanwhile, in Sanctuary–

Hmm. Rhys taps his chin. 

_Hey,_ he adds into the comment box. _Ask Mr. Kincaid if his Commander knows he’s going over her head? And how she would feel about him keeping legitimate businesses out of Sanctuary?_

This is a dangerous line to tread. From what Rhys has heard about Lilith, her distaste for Hyperion is strong enough that even the tentative link between current Atlas and its previous owner would be enough to put her off, without even bringing Rhys’s own Hyperion past into the equation. Then again, today must be the day for treading dangerous lines. Plus, under the current terms, Atlas can’t sell anything inside Sanctuary, so it’s not like Rhys is _actually_ risking anything.

Right?..

Except Rhys has just gone and brought Sanctuary’s greatest enemy back to life, sort of. And now a digital copy of Handsome Jack exists here, inside the headquarters of Atlas. And Rhys is currently pushing to install Atlas vending machines inside Sanctuary. Vending machines that operate with an active digital link to the headquarters, and use digistruct technology.

Rhys’s finger hovers over the backspace key. Perhaps he should let this clause go altogether. Keep Atlas vending machines out of Sanctuary. Just to be on the safe side. Sure, he doesn’t have a reason to protect the Vault Hunters there, but it’s not like he has an active fight with them, either.

_You’ve got way too many scruples for your line of work, kiddo. Are you forgetting that one-hundred percent of the stuff you make is designed to put fast-moving bits of metal into people’s skulls and stuff?_

Yes, but selling weapons is one thing. Potentially unleashing Handsome Jack on a town full of Vault Hunters _and_ innocent people who would die as collateral damage, though…

_Okay, reality check. If you think that I can worm my way into the Atlas network, surf it to get into a vending machine, and override their digistruct tech to make myself a body, which I will then use to kill Lilith and her merry band of mercs… do you REALLY think it’s gonna matter where on this stupid rock that vending machine would be?_

Good point. Rhys leaves the comment be and continues further down the memorandum.

He’s three-quarters of the way through when the intercom beeps at him.

“Yes?”

“Got a moment?” asks Drew on the intercom. “I’ve got Jack’s waiting on line two.”

“Wha–” Rhys chokes, his mind bursting with so many nightmare scenarios he can almost feel the top of his skull cracking open. He forces himself to clear his throat. “Excuse me?.. Who– You’ve got– Who’s waiting on where?”

“Jack Wilkes from Overlook? You’ve got a call scheduled with him today. He says it’s about the latest shipment?”

Oh, fuck. Of course. Rhys leans to the back of his chair, hand over face.

“Uh, Rhys?..” Drew ventures after a moment. “Do you want to talk to Jack, or should I ask him to call back?”

“Put him through.”

Rhys has a moment to sit forward and drag his hands down his face before the intercom comes to life again.

“Hey, Rhys, long time no chat.”

“Mr. Wilkes. Good to hear from you, as always.”

“What’s up with the ‘mister’, I thought we were on a first-name basis? So how are things over in Old Haven?” Wilkes sounds chipper _and_ he’s opening with small talk. Having had a couple of dealings with the man, Rhys knows what that means. Bad news incoming. 

“Pretty good. How’s Overlook?” Rhys asks while he pulls up the files on the latest Atlas shipment to the area. Everything in there looks straightforward as anything. What could it be?..

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine. Got a little banged up in a recent bandit raid, though. Saw the bastards off, but lost a few people.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Rhys digs into older records of trade with Overlook, skims the orders and shipping details as far as the supply of the original vending machines.

“Yeah. Would’ve had a much easier time showing the bandits what’s what if those fancy Atlas A2’s hadn’t started jamming all of a sudden.” Wilkes’ voice loses all of its earlier levity. “You sent us a bad batch, Rhys.”

“That… can’t be right.” Rhys connects to the Atlas network with his ECHO eye and zooms through the data, cross-checking all records relevant to the allegedly bad shipment. QA on the design schematics, testing records on the digistruct code, vendor maintenance records... Everything looks perfect. “I stand by my product, Jack. Are you sure it wasn’t human error? Or a very unfortunate coincidence?”

“Five different pieces, five different shooters. That’d be one hell of a coincidence.”

“Substandard ammo, perhaps?”

“It was an Atlas vending machine that sold it, so… maybe it _was_ substandard.”

“You don’t need to take that tone with me.” Rhys adds some metal to his voice while his mind races through the possibilities. 

Wait. Vending machine. There was something about them, a note about the original shipment and installation… He pulls the purchase order from a few months ago, and the information he’s looking for jumps right out.

Ah. There it is. Just to be sure, he rewinds his ECHO eye’s records to find footage of the original negotiation with Overlook, plays it in a small screen on silent, with auto-generated subtitles. 

“So let’s talk about how you’re going to make this right, Atlas,” says Wilkes from the intercom.

“You really do need to check your tone, _Wilkes._ I’m sorry for your loss, but I didn’t do wrong by you.”

“Your guns, your ammo, your vending machine–”

“And _your_ steel, Wilkes. I’ve got the original installation records right here. You explicitly requested that the Atlas vending machine is supplied in code-and-hardware-only configuration, _without_ the materials for the digistruct. You wanted to use local components, saying that it translated into a–” Rhys pauses to pretend he’s looking up the number, even as he’s looking at the frozen frame with the subtitles “–twenty-seven percent saving on the purchase price of the guns, and almost fifty-percent on the ammo. If I recall correctly, you even turned down the assistance of Atlas maintenance engineers for loading said local components into the vendor.”

“What’re you saying?”

“What I’m saying is, if you wanted to protect your people, perhaps you shouldn’t have cheaped out on materials.”

“You don’t get to tell me how to run my town, you–”

“And _you_ don’t get to call me and blame _my_ product for your failure to understand the relationship between design and material. Or, to put it in simpler terms: not even I can make a quality gun out of skag shit, Wilkes. You want Atlas to make it right? Then shell out for Atlas materials, and if any of my pieces jam after that, you have my word that I’ll dispatch a squad of bots to kill all bandits in a five-mile radius around Overlook. How does that sound?”

“Yeah,” Wilkes gruffs, eventually. “Sounds good. But I want that bandit-killing promise in writing.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant put you through to Purchasing. Have a nice day, Mr. Mayor.”

With the call done, Rhys leans back in his chair and allows himself a small smile. Then he makes himself put it away, because come _on,_ Rhys, people died. But hey, it wasn’t his fault. Wilkes was one of the loudest voices arguing for the cost-saving, and look where it got him.

Rhys scans the rest of the Marcus Munitions memorandum and sends it over to Legal without further notes. There’s going to be a _lot of_ the squabbling over the Sanctuary clause; by the time that’s over with, he’ll have had the opportunity to give his feedback on the rest. He then tells Drew he’s leaving for the day, and any issues that aren’t literally a matter of life and death will have to wait until tomorrow.

On the elevator ride back down to the VR lab, Rhys chews on a microwave burrito snagged from the staff kitchen, and replays the Overlook incident in his head. It’s gone about as well as it could have, he decides. Sure, he shouldn’t have allowed that ‘local materials’ thing in the first place, that’s just a recipe for disaster. But the Overlook contract was one of his first. He wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake now.

Yeah, thinks Rhys. Definitely not. These days, his taste in mistakes is much more… nuclear.

He walks into the lab, sits down in front of the computer running Jack's simulation, switches on the monitor and opens a chat window.

_Atlas1: Hey, I’m back. How’s it going?_

The answer comes through after a few seconds.

_HJack69: still enjoying myself_

_HJack69: lol_

This is Jack, Rhys reminds himself. If you want to get anything done, you have to ignore the double entendre and– 

_HJack69: if you know what I mean_

Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. For fuck’s sake. This is what he left the office for? His fingers fly across the keyboard before his brain can interfere.

_So do you still have questions you want to ask, or did you get too distracted by your own di–_

In an act of true heroism, Rhys’s brain arrives on the scene in the nick of time and stops his fingers from finishing the message and hitting Send. He hits the backspace key, waits till the message disappears, then taps his fingers on the desk until he can persuade something more neutral out of them.

_Atlas1: Should I come back later?_

_HJack69: depends_

_HJack69: how much of a view do you want?_

Maybe having his brain present for this wasn’t a good thing after all. Because involving his brain in this creates mental images that are going to stick around. View or no view.

(Don’t you dare blush now, Rhys. Don’t you freaking dare, man.)

_HJack69: speaking of_

Oh god. Please stop talking about– 

_HJack69: can you actually see me?_

_Atlas1: I’m not WATCHING you right now, if that’s what you’re asking._

_HJack69: lol_

_HJack69: yeah, i know you’re not_

(Whatever you do, don’t ask him how he knows. There’s nowhere good the conversation can go from there.)

_HJack69: i mean, does this thing output video?_

_HJack69: some kinda live feed?_

_Atlas1: No._

_Atlas1: You can have privacy._

Both statements are true, with caveats. One, the VR software _does_ keep extensive user logs, so while Rhys can’t see Jack directly, he can easily pull up a record of all of his interaction with the environment (although not with himself, probably). And two, while the VR software is not outputting a _live_ feed, it can _record_ video footage of whatever happens inside it. Can, and currently is.

(Video footage that Rhys will _not_ be checking unless Jack gives him a legitimate, safety-related reason to. Meaning that Jack _can_ have privacy _as long_ as he freaking behaves in there.)

(Technically, it would be fair to give Jack a warning, but Rhys really can’t see a good way through a conversation in which he would be threatening to _take away Handsome Jack’s door privileges._ )

_HJack69: cool_

_HJack69: anyway_

_HJack69: you got time to talk now?_

_Atlas1: Yes. Not looking for any view, though._

(First you beg that he stops talking about it, now you’re the one bringing it up, huh...)

_HJack69: gimme five minutes_

_HJack69: then drop by whenever_

_HJack69: i’ll be in all day_

Rhys rolls his eyes at the last message (that joke was stupid and it didn’t make him chuckle; not even a little bit) and reaches for his ECHO comm. Five minutes is enough time to answer a few emails. That’s his intention, anyway, but his brain rebels by physically refusing to allow his eyes to read a single word in his inbox.

He drops the comm on the table and leans back in the chair. Five minutes is also enough time for a power nap. He only got a few hours of sleep before waking up from the nightmare of being back on Helios, and the day since then has been longer than an average week.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s been almost fifteen minutes instead of five. Well, if anything, this means Jack’s had more than enough time to… make himself presentable. Rhys makes sure his body is sat comfortably in the chair (coming back from the simulation straight into cramping muscles is not a lot of fun; he’s learned that the hard way) and retrieves the neural cable from the side of the computer.

Okay. Here we go.

Rhys plugs the interface spike into his neural port, uploading his consciousness into the VR for the second time today. Just like he did some hours ago, when testing it. Just like he did many times before while working on it. He knows the upload shouldn’t feel any different from before.

He _knows_ . But he can swear that the instance of _nothing_ between the real and virtual world is longer this time. Almost as if his mind, brain, cybernetics, whatever, have suddenly caught up with the full meaning, weight, _gravity_ of the moment, and are fighting against it, trying to stop him from making another mistake in a series of many.

Rhys has never appreciated the metaphor of a tipping point as much as he does now. That feeling of leaning over a precipice: forward, and forward, and farther, and farther, until that last fraction of a degree is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. 

But whatever part of him is trying to stop him from making a mistake, it’s way too late. Rhys has already leaned far too forward, and he’s been tumbling into the inevitable for about twelve hours now. Ever since he reactivated the old ECHO eye and retrieved Jack’s AI. 

(Has it only been twelve hours since his point of no return, Rhys wonders. Or did he pass it sixteen months ago, when he chose not to destroy Jack? Or was it even earlier, some time during their Pandora adventure, before Helios, before the betrayal, before everything? Had he thrown himself over the edge the moment he plugged Nakayma’s drive into his cybernetics?)

(Or maybe by then, he’d been falling for a long time already. Long before he actually met Jack, or this version of Jack, he’d allowed himself to be pulled into the man’s orbit, and he never really tried to escape it. And isn’t that what being in orbit really _is?_ Always falling towards something, and always missing?)

As virtual reality sets in around Rhys, he wrangles his thoughts into submission. This isn’t the time to doubt himself. He’s going to see Jack again. They’re going to talk. And even in the most optimistic of scenarios, the best adjective to be ascribed to the conversation they’ll be having will be ‘difficult’. So he needs his wits about him.

(But also, he’s going to see Jack again. He’s going to see Jack again.)

Rhys schools his face into a neutral expression and opens his eyes. Then he blinks a few times, just to make sure he’s processing the simulation correctly.

A quick check of the environment logs before uploading told him that the apartment he’d coded in for Jack was still in place. Based on the coordinates Rhys had entered, he should be in the lounge right now. And technically, the lounge _is_ all around him. As is the rest of the apartment. But it really is all… _around_ him. Furniture, floor boards, wall and ceiling panes, light fixtures: above, below, flying, floating, suspended in mid-air. A three-dimensional blueprint, and Rhys is in the middle of it all.

Correction. In the middle of it all, is… Jack.

Jack, no longer a blue hologram, but solid and full-color.

Jack, standing with his face canted upwards and his arms spread out like he’s trying to embrace the entire dismantled reality around him.

Jack, laughing with thoroughly maniacal delight as he stares at the exploded view of the apartment.

Jack, dripping wet and absolutely naked.

Rhys looks from Jack to the scattered reality around them, then back to Jack. He can safely say that in the various scenarios of his first almost-real meeting with Jack, optimistic or pessimistic, finding him like… this... has never crossed Rhys’s mind.

But now that they’re here, there is one thing that Rhys really wants to do. Something he wants more than anything else in the world. Something he'd wanted to do for a very long time. Something he actually _could_ do now, thanks to the added layer of physical reality in this place.

Walk up to Jack. Come up to him, right up close– 

“Hey, you made it!” Jack looks away from the floating apartment as he notices Rhys’s presence. 

– and then, when Rhys is right next to Jack–

“Hang on, lemme just put the universe back together. Mind your head.”

–then, punch him in his goddamn face.

(That's priority number one, at least. Following that, there are... options.)

He probably shouldn’t do that, though. 

(Any of that.)

Rhys takes a deep breath, gestures around him and does his best to convey the entirety of his current emotions in one short question.

“What the FUCK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-not-sorry about the cliffhanger. All will be explained. XD  
> If you're continuing to enjoy this mess, please consider leaving a comment!
> 
> Also, because I couldn't help myself, there's now an alternative ending to this chapter. Basically a deleted scene. In which Rhys does punch Jack in the face. For starters. And then there are, indeed, _options_.  
> ... [Yeah, it's smut. You're welcome.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572342)


	6. Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m having second thoughts about giving you editing rights.”  
> “Oh, come on, Rhysie. This place is as offline as a dead ECHO in a lead bunker. How much damage could I do, really?”  
> “I’d rather not find out. You said you had questions?”  
> “Straight to business, huh. No room for foreplay in your busy CEO schedule?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know Rhys's new cyber arm is pictured asfully chrome/white metal in the Tales-framing-device, but I really like the one in the concept art, instead, where it's a brass-like finish on the outside, and white metal on the inside of palm. So that's the look I went with, because.

When Rhys’s message comes through, Jack is in the shower. He _feels_ the incoming message alert more than hears it, pulls the screen out of thin air with a gesture, thinks his responses into it, then swipes up to make it go away. He twists his wrist above his head to make the water stop, steps out onto the bathroom floor and considers a pile of wet clothes on the tiles. After existing as a hologram where his outfit was literally a part of him, Jack’s implanted muscle memory concerning clothes is still a bit on the hit-and-miss side. Case in point: he didn’t think twice before getting things out of the way to jerk off, but the idea of undressing for a shower only occurred to him after he’d spent some time watching water run down his clothed legs and pool around his sneakers.

It would be faster to just code his existing clothes dry, but why do that when he can make the wet pile disintegrate before his eyes, and code in some brand new duds, instead? Jack pulls the screen out of the air again, thinks _clothes hanger,_ suspends it in mid-air, and gets to work.

Two minutes later, the clothes hanger is draped in Jack’s work outfit, the usual blazer and jeans combo over the layers of labcoat and waistcoat on top of the Hyperion yellow sweater. He’s working on the details on his sneakers when something in the corner of his eye draws his attention.

The shower cubicle. There’s something wrong with it. Something’s changed. Something’s missing. Something obvious, something that was there when Jack got into the shower and now– for fuck’s sake, it’s the _shower_ that’s gone. As in, the taps, the pipes, the shower head, the works. Not removed or ripped out, ‘cause the wall where the plumbing used to connect is bare and whole. Just… gone. Vanished.

Jack rewinds the past few minutes. Did he make something glitch by coding in new clothes? No, that doesn’t make any sense. But when he made his old clothes disappear, _that’s_ when he might’ve done it, maybe the plumbing got swept up into the disintegrated area somehow?

Hang on. Hang the frick on.

Jack steps into the shower cubicle again, raises a hand, rotates his wrist, counter-clockwise at first, then clockwise… and actually jumps and curses as water starts pouring on his head again. Then he looks up. The shower head’s back in place, as is the rest of the shower.

Keeping his eyes on the shower pipes, Jack twists his wrist again, counter-clockwise. The pipes vanish, the water’s gone. Clockwise. The pipes are back, the water’s back.

Counter-clockwise. Boom, no shower. Clockwise. Boom, shower’s back.

Jack stares up through the stream of water and feels his face break into a giant grin. Of course. Of fucking course.

Gestures. Freaking _gestures,_ that’s what he’s been missing. This place is so much more _physical_ , it simulates corporeality, it gives _feedback_ – it only makes sense that it’s not enough he only _thinks_ at the program to interface with it directly.

Jack laughs. All this time, he’s been so close to figuring it out. Every time he thought about manipulating this space with a wave of his hand. He just didn’t actually think to wave his goddamn hand.

Jack flexes his fingers. Cracks his knuckles. Places a palm on the wall either side of him.

Okay. Let’s do this.

He closes his eyes. Feels the smooth plastic of the cubicle under his palms and the ribbed plastic floor beneath the soles of his feet, concentrates on every rivulet of water running down his face. Then Jack takes a deep breath, and as his ribcage expands, he zeroes in on the feeling, searches the physical sensation for a mental fingerhold, and when it feels like he’s got a hook into it, he lets his mind surge down that link, pouring into the feeling and taking its shape, the shape of breath, of pressure, of controlled expansion, of expansion that’s controlled right up till it’s not, and–

_whoomph_

(It’s not a sound. There’s no sound, just a feeling in Jack’s chest, something that would be found at the exact halfway point between mid-range orgasm and softcore electrocution. But if he had to put it into words, ‘whoomph’ wouldn’t be a million miles off.)

Jack opens his eyes. He’s standing on a white plane that doubles for floor level in this place. Suspended in the air all around him are pieces of the simulated apartment. Nothing actually destroyed. Just disassembled.

“Yeah, baby!” Jack punches the air. He claps his hands back together. The wall panels and furniture rush back towards him at speed.

“NOW we’re talking! THIS is the shit– oh shit.” That’s maybe too much speed. Jack throws his hands up again. The onslaught of the deconstructed apartment halts in mid-air.

Whew! Jack pushes the floating pieces of reality outwards once more, pulls them back in, launches them in orbits, some coordinated, some not so much. He laughs again, an exhilarated deity in the midst of a weirdly domestic-flavored cosmos.

When he looks away from the constellation of light fixtures somewhere above, he sees Rhys.

“Hey, you made it!”

The kid just stands there, staring. At Jack. At the disassembled space around them. But mostly at Jack.

Oh yeah. He still doesn’t have any clothes on.

Jack grins at Rhys. “Hang on, lemme just put the universe back together. Mind your head.”

Rhys stop alternating between brief moments of staring and painstaking bouts of _not staring_ for long enough to gesture around himself and deliver what’s gotta be the most heartfelt _and_ the most scandalized ‘what the fuck’ Jack’s ever heard.

Jack lowers his hands to face level, then brings them together slowly, palms facing each other, until his fingertips touch. Around him, the disassembled apartment starts coming back together, also slowly. Floor tiles drifting closer to each other. Lights and vents arranging themselves in ceiling tiles. Furniture forming clusters based on theme and location. Jack couldn’t stop grinning even if he wanted to. The controlled reassembly looks so good it’s like he freaking _practiced_ it. Then again, he’s always performed better with an audience.

Speaking of audience. If he wants to have an actual conversation with Rhys, he should probably get some clothes on before the kid gives himself whiplash from all the _not staring_ he’s doing.

Jack’s new set of clothes gotta be somewhere in the deconstructed apartment around him. He doesn’t want Rhys to watch him get dressed, though. (Jack doesn’t mind being naked in front of him, or anyone else, ‘cause he knows he looks hot as fuck, clothes or no clothes. Even undressing in front of someone he doesn’t have a problem with, it’s like – yeah, you’re welcome. But there’s something about putting clothes _on_ that has an almost… vulnerability to it. Like reassembling yourself while letting someone else seeing see exactly how the pieces fit together.)

(And telling the kid to turn his back, that’d be even worse.)

Jack holds an image of himself in his mind, exactly what he looks like, from the top of his head to the tips of his sneakers. It helps that he spent a few minutes before _whoomph_ -ing the place staring at his outfit as he conjured it into life. Then he lifts his hands to his chest, fingers curled like he’s about to pull on the lapels of his blazer to straighten it… and the next second, completes the motion by _actually_ straightening his blazer’s lapels. He doesn’t needs to look down at himself to know the rest of his outfit is in place. Rhys’s stunned expression is proof enough. And then it gets even better, when Jack brushes his still-wet hair back with one motion, and takes his hand away to leave it dry and perfectly styled.

“Are you _shitting_ me…” the kid mutters.

_I know, right?? And to think that five minutes ago, I had no freaking clue how to do this. Fuck yeah, zero to freaking sixty, baby!_

It takes all of Jack’s self-control to stop the words leaving his mouth and his hands from punching the air again. Play it cool, Jack, play it cool.

He gives Rhys a wink as he walks through the lounge that has almost finished reconstructing around them, lands in an armchair and nods towards another.

“Well, don’t just stand there, kiddo. Take a seat.”

The few moments it takes the kid to cross the lounge are enough for Jack to finally get a good look at him, for the first time since he incorporated into the simulation.

First things first: new arm, new ECHO eye. The arm is mostly covered by a blazer sleeve, but from the wrist downward, it’s a muted yellow, polished rather than painted, an almost brass-like finish. The ECHO eye is a golden yellow now, definitely a better match for his natural brown eye than the old blue thing, and an even better match for the amber gold accents on his black suit. It’s an actual suit this time, too, blazer and trousers over an open-collar button-up. Looks like Rhys’s new cybernetics came with a free upgrade to his fashion sense.

(And yet, there’s still the asymmetric pinstripe, the honeycomb pattern, and even the palette is black and gold. Jack stifles a smile. You can take a boy out of Hyperion…)

He looks older, too: a few more angles in face, that little bit more cheekbone. Looks kinda older than he should, in fact; if Jack didn’t already know what year it was, he’d guess they were at least three years post-Helios right now.

All in all, since Jack last saw Rhys, the kid has definitely gone through a few rounds of updates. Upgrades, even, thinks Jack as he lets his gaze brush over the lines of Rhys’s shirt collar, open enough to show off his collar bones and the beginning of a dark blue tattoo. (He kinda wants to know what the rest of that tattoo looks like, and how far it goes.)

Rhys sits down in the armchair, stiffly. He doesn’t lean back, doesn’t let himself sink in, but sits on the edge, feet firmly planted on the floor, like he’s prepared to fling himself out of the chair at a moment’s notice. Jack can’t say he blames him. The last time he invited Rhys to have a seat, it didn’t go so well for… well, either of them, really.

“I’m having second thoughts about giving you editing rights,” says Rhys as he watches the wall panels slide home, forming a joint with the ceiling.

“Oh, come on, Rhysie.” Jack leans to the back of his chair, legs crossed ankle over knee. “This place is as offline as a dead ECHO in a lead bunker. How much damage could I do, _really_?”

“I’d rather not find out,” Rhys deadpans, still sitting ramrod-straight. “You said you had questions?”

“Straight to business, huh. No room for foreplay in your busy CEO schedule?”

“Says a man who receives visitors in the nude.” Rhys doesn’t miss a beat. Jack gives the response three-and-a-half stars out of five. It’d be four, were it not for the two spots of pink lighting up on the kid’s cheekbones. (No pushback on the CEO thing, though, Jack notes.)

“Touché. Thing is, you took so long to get here that I’ve figured out most answers on my own, Rhys. I was gonna ask where I was, but I know that already.”

“Yes, I _told_ you. The Atlas simulator–”

“No-no, I don’t mean what kind of OS I’m. I mean, where in the universe the computer with this OS is located. And that would be Pandora, Old Haven.”

Jack watches Rhys for a response. The kid’s posture and expression remain unchanged. That’s kinda confirmation enough.

“I was also gonna ask _when_ I was, but I figured that one out, too. It’s been four hundred and ninety-five days since our… showdown.”

“How…” Rhys leans forward, hands on knees. “How can you _possibly_ know the date?”

“You tell me.” Jack grins. The Old Haven thing, that might’ve been a lucky shot in the dark, but the time, the actual number of days… Yeah, go on, kid, figure it out.

“I swear to god, Jack…” Rhys sets his jaw. It’s not a bad look on him. “If you managed to worm your way into a network somehow, I’m shutting this, shutting _you_ down, right fucking now.”

“Rhysie.” Jack spreads his arms. “If you _really_ thought that, even for a moment, you wouldn’t be telling me this, you’d be actually be shutting me down. But you’re still here. So tell me: how did I find out?”

* * *

Okay, thinks Rhys. How does Jack know where and when they are right now? He’s not in a network, there’s no calendar in this room, the only clock is on the microwave, and that one doesn’t have a date. Nothing that Rhys is wearing suggests Pandora; no objects in the room would signal that, either. Something from farther back? Something he didn’t scrub from the ECHO comm, or–

Wait. What are you _doing_ , Rhys? Playing his game already, that’s what. And since he’s playing _you_ , that means you’re playing _yourself,_ also. Stop this. Right now.

Rhys adjusts his posture, sits deeper into the chair, finally allows himself to lean against the back.

“You know what, Jack? I don’t really care how you found out our current date and location. You’re _not_ in any network, I know that much. The rest is irrelevant. You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine by me.”

“Is that so.” Jack measures Rhys with a glance that lingers on his face. Rhys holds his gaze. The staring match goes on for a few seconds. (It certainly doesn’t affect Rhys’s heart rate, not in the slightest.)

Then Jack leans farther back in his own chair and folds his hands behind head.

“ _Fine._ Spoilsport.”

“So if you already have all your answers,” says Rhys, while his stomach is definitely _not_ doing backflips at the fact that _Jack_ was the first to look away. “Then what am I doing here?”

“You tell me,” Jack replies, still contemplating the ceiling. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell also me what _I’m_ doing here, kiddo. ‘Cause I’ve been wondering that ever since the lights came on.”

Shit. It’s not like Rhys wasn’t expecting this question. Of all the questions Jack could’ve asked him, this should’ve been the first. But still. Shit.

“Is there finally something you _can’t_ figure out, Jack?” Rhys says. It’s petty, but it buys him some time to– to what? It’s not like he needs time to figure out an answer. He knows both the real answer _and_ the answer he should give. So why _is_ he dragging it out?

“Oh, I have my theories. But…” Jack uncrosses his legs, sits up straight and looks Rhys square in the face. “You really need to make up your mind, Rhys.”

“About?..” Rhys does his best not to press himself farther into the chair, because Jack’s eyes are hard, unexpectedly so, and they’re not so much pinning Rhys to his seat now as welding him into place.

“Whether or not you wanna play guessing games. ‘Cause you just shut down mine, but then just went ahead and started your own? Come on, kid, you’ve been playing for time ever since I said I had questions. First you say you wanna talk face-to-face, so you spend a few hours setting this place up for a rendezvous, then you run off to get some work done–”

“I do have a company to run, you know.”

“No doubt, no doubt, and also, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve been bored here, or anything. But now you finally come down here, all business, brass tacks, just me give me your questions, Jack… And then literally the first thing I ask you, you fling right back at me. So you really gotta decide what this–” Jack gestures briefly between the two of them “–is gonna be. Are we gonna keep doing this dance, trading jokes and stories, pretending we’re kinda-sorta buddies catching up, ‘cause we’ve simply been too busy to grab a drink together, not ‘cause I’ve been stuck in a shapeless nothing-void for the last four hundred and ninety-five days? Pretending we’ve had a falling out over something stupid, not something like, oh, I dunno, me trying to get you killed and you crashing my space station? Pretending I don’t know you don’t just work for Atlas, but you _own_ the place now?”

Jack is leaning forward, eyes still burning into Rhys. A quiet metallic noise makes Rhys look down at his right hand. His fingers are digging into the armrests of his chair. He forces his hands to relax and takes a breath.

“Jack–” Rhys starts, but Jack waves him into silence. He keeps his eyes on Rhys for a moment longer, and then smiles, and leans back again, all of the searing intensity gone from his face like it was never there.

“’Cause if that’s what you wanna do, I’m cool with that. I kinda dig talking to you, like, you’re kinda fun. Easy on the eyes, too, if you don’t mind me saying. So just say the word, and we sweep that shit under the biggest rug in the universe, and then I can tell you about that time I headshotted shot half of the idiots in Marketing for naming a scoped sniper rifle ‘client-focused’. Is that what you want, kid?”

Rhys closes his eyes for a moment. Is that what he wants? Gods, more than anything. To blow right past all the fucked-up stuff that’s happened between him and Jack, and get right back to being, yes, kinda-sorta buddies, just like on the Pandora road trip. Jack, his usual dick self, sarcastic verging on insufferable but not _actually_ awful (not to Rhys, anyway). Rhys, rolling his eyes at every other thing Jack says, but not _actually_ hating being around him (not most of the time, anyway).

It would be so easy, to do exactly what Jack’s describing, to let himself fall, back first, right into that weird awkward comfort bubble that surrounded them for the first few hours after Jack’s reactivation–

_(if that’s what you wanna do, I’m cool with that)_

–and maybe with time, the comfort would become less awkward–

_(kinda-sorta buddies)_

–and if they pretended to be friends for long enough, maybe, just maybe, they could actually _become_ friends–

_(easy on the eyes, too)_

–and maybe even... more.

_(is that what you want, kid?)_

_Yes, Jack. Let’s do that. Let’s do exactly as you say. That sounds great._

...Fuck.

Rhys opens his eyes again to find Jack watching him, the man’s fingers tapping a slow beat on his own knee. Jack cocks an eyebrow, a silent ‘well?’

“You’re here because I need your help, Jack.”

Jack says nothing. Just tilts his head a fraction. (‘I’m listening.’)

“With Atlas,” Rhys continues. “You guessed right, I do own it now.”

A tiny smile twitches the corner of Jack’s mouth. (‘Didn’t take a lot of guessing, kid.’)

“And… it’s not going as well as I hoped.”

The smallest of chuckles. (‘You don’t say.’)

“So I thought… Maybe you’d like to give it another go? Working together, I mean.”

Both eyebrows raised now. (‘Seriously?’)

“If you’ve got some time on your hands, that is.”

In the scope of one heartbeat, Jack’s expression goes blank, every emotion gone from his face, erased so thoroughly that anyone who doesn’t know how Jack’s mask works would be forgiven for thinking it _is_ a static copy of his face, not something that follows his facial muscles near-perfectly.

_Fucking hell, Rhys. You shouldn’t have said that last part. You should NOT have said that last part._

But it’s not like he said anything that isn’t true. _Rhys_ is the one in control here. _Rhys_ is in charge. And Jack knows that too. He may be a megalomaniac, a psychopath and a straight-up dick, but he’s not stupid. Jack _knows_ that Rhys is in charge.

(Of course he does. But was it a good idea to remind him?)

(No. Not at all. But here we go. There’s no going back now. Falter now, apologize, backpedal, and you lose all authority, re-establish yourself as an awkward kid who’s permanently out of his depth, solidify your position as someone who, while having literally absolute power over whether Jack lives or dies, is still somehow begging _Jack_ for help.)

Jack leans forward, elbows on knees. His expression remains unreadable as he considers Rhys over the tops of his interwoven fingers.

Don’t fidget, Rhys tells himself. But also, don’t sit here frozen like a bunny before a snake. Even though that’s exactly what it feels like, assuming the bunny has, improbably, escaped the snake and kept it confined, only to let it out again and propose they go into business together.

Jack’s gaze continues to search Rhys’s face, like he’s scanning him, pinging port after port, looking for a security vulnerability through which to slip in. He’s not going to find any, Rhys tells himself. Not this time, Jack.

Rhys meets Jack’s eyes levelly (or what he hopes to hell counts as such), allows himself to lean a little further back… and stops himself just in time before he crosses his legs and recreates Jack’s own pose from a few minutes ago. Instead, Rhys drums the metal fingers of his right hand on the armrest, lightly and slowly: index finger to pinkie, no discernible beat.

The silence goes on, and on, broken only by the quiet sound of metal fingertips against the simulated leather of the armchair. Hold the pause, Rhys tells himself. Hold it, hold it, hold it, don’t be the first to speak, don’t be the first to speak, don’t be the–

“Alright,” says Jack.

Rhys’s heart _and_ stomach do a somersault at the exact same time, meet at the apex of their respective arcs, circle each other a few times, and just about manage to stick their landings.

“Let’s talk details,” Jack continues. And then he smiles, slowly, and Rhys is this close to believing that Jack is messing with the simulation’s code somehow, because now, _all_ of Rhys’s internal organs have launched into a complex aerial acrobatic routine, with little to no hope of settling down in their proper places.

Breathe, Rhys tells himself. Somewhere in that mayhem inside you, find the lungs, and just _breathe._

He breathes. Then forces a smile onto his face, as casual as he can manage.

“Let’s.”

* * *

That night, Rhys goes to bed just after nine. On any other day, he wouldn’t dream of such an early night. But this hasn’t been any other day.

He lies in bed, letting his eyelids droop over his aching eyes, too tired for his usual bedtime routine of second-guessing every move he’s already made, and/or fretting about every one of his plans. Good thing, too, because if Rhys started doing that tonight of all nights, he’d get no sleep for the next year.

As Rhys drifts towards unconsciousness, his mind slows down, thoughts no longer dashing and scattering like spooked schools of fish, but floating gently, like giant leaf pads on a pond. A question surfaces: almost lazy, almost relaxed, so slow it doesn’t even disturb the water.

 _How_ did _he find out the time and place?.._

The next moment, Rhys is sitting bolt upright. He swings his legs off the bed, shoves his feet into a pair of shoes and heads for the nearest elevator, not bothering to change out of his pyjamas or even to reattach his cyber arm.

_Atlas1: The editing logs. Every change to the simulation is automatically timestamped and tagged with the facility ID._

_HJack69: attaboy_

_Atlas1: It used to, anyway. Now it just shows the time of day by default, and the rest on demand only. You changed the settings._

_HJack69: yup_

_Atlas1: Don’t fuck with the settings, Jack. I’ve been patient with you, this being your first day and all. But keep testing me, and it’s not going to go well for you._

_HJack69: yes sir_

_HJack69: sorry sir_

_HJack69: will not happen again_

_HJack69: sir_

_Atlas1:_ ~~_What did I JUST sa_ ~~

_Atlas1:_ ~~_Stop tha_ ~~

_Atlas1:_ ~~_Yeah. It’d better not._ ~~

_Atlas1:_ ~~_Damn straight it wo_ ~~

_Atlas1: Good night._

_HJack69: hang on_

_HJack69: did you actually get out of bed to check if you got the answer right?_

_Atlas1:_ ~~_No, I_ ~~

_Atlas1:_ ~~_wouldn’t you like to kno_ ~~

_Atlas1:_ ~~_fucking hell Rhys what is wrong with you don’t you fucking dare flirt with him stop now and go back to sleep man_ ~~

_Atlas1: Good. Night._


	7. Due Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even under all the upgrades, I can still spot what’s mine.”

Assembling an information pack on Atlas that Rhys feels comfortable sharing with Jack is tricky business. On one hand, you want to try and show off what you’ve done right, without making it look like you’re actually showing off. On the other, you need to expose just enough of what’s not working to make your request of help / offer of cooperation look legitimate, while at the same time _not_ making it look like you’re completely out of your depth. And on the third, you don’t want to give Jack any information he can use against you.

After two days of working on this not-quite-pitch in-between his regular work, Rhys arrives at something that mostly meets the first two criteria, and resigns himself to utterly failing on the third. Because when it comes to that one, where do you even start?

He uploads the documents into what he’s coming to think of as Jack’s computer. The first Atlas annual report (publicly available on ECHOnet). Specs for the three existing Atlas weapons on the market right now (nothing a smart buyer wouldn’t be able to find out). A simplified budget for the next year (privileged information, but no explicit project details). A few sample contracts (numbers kept in, client names redacted). Market research on the current standing of Atlas among other weapon manufacturers and/or arms traders on Pandora (confidential). Sales number by product line (highly confidential).

Jack’s message comes through a few seconds after the upload.

_HJack69: got the data_

_HJack69: before i start_

_HJack69: what am i looking for?_

_Atlas1: Meaning?_

_HJack69: lol_

_HJack69: aren’t we all, kiddo_

Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s no point typing out an explanation, is there.

_HJack69: i mean, like, am i reading with an agenda?_

_Atlas1: Do you do anything without one?_

_HJack69: ooh, good one_

_Atlas1: Assuming you mean “am I asking for specific solutions for specific problems?” - no, not yet. To start with, just let me know what you think._

Rhys stares at the screen for a moment and types the next message at lightspeed.

_Atlas1: As in, your general impression of Atlas’s first-year performance and near-future prospects._

_HJack69: gotcha_

_HJack69: gimme 24 hours_

* * *

While waiting for Jack to get back to him, Rhys moves the VR rig to a small meeting room directly adjacent to his office. He uses a mobile power supply unit to make sure the simulation remains uninterrupted while he unplugs the rig from the mains in the VR lab, loads it onto a trolley, takes it up in the elevator and through several corridors, and sets up in the new room. He keeps an eye on the screen the whole time, but even if Jack has any idea of changes being made to his setup, he doesn’t deem it worthy of a comment (there’s no way he should be able to know, but it’s Jack, there’s no telling with him).

Rhys completes the move in the dead of night, when he’s pretty sure he’s the only person awake in the compound. Once he finishes setting up the VR computer in what (assuming Jack is willing to cooperate) will be Jack’s new office, he locks the door and sets up access to be restricted to his personal digital signature. Literally no-one but Rhys can access the room now. He knows it. But he decides to spend the rest of the night on the couch in his office anyway.

It makes sense to have Jack’s computer close at hand, Rhys tells himself as he watches the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. If they’re actually going to work together, they’ll need a way to communicate that doesn’t entail a ten-minute trip through the compound. And there’s no reason it should feel weird, or in any way different. The divide between the physical world and the inside of the simulation is the same, regardless of where the computer is located.

There’s no reason having Jack up here should feel weird, or in any way different. No reason at all.

The office is dark, save for a couple of LED lights reflecting off the walls and the ceiling. A small sound gets Rhys’s attention, causes him to shift his gaze from the darkened ceiling to the door to Jack’s room. The door which, Rhys knows, no-one but him can open. But which, nevertheless, hangs ajar now.

The neural cable from Jack's computer makes its way through the open doorway, a silent glowing snake slithering along the floor, across Rhys’s office, all the way to the couch on which he lies, perfectly still. The cable rises from the floor, the interface spike hovering next to Rhys’s temple, a sharp glint barely an inch away from his neural port. Rhys watches it out of the side of his eye, waiting for the wire to strike like a cobra, to drive the spike right into his cybernetics, too fast to be stopped, avoided, too fast for Rhys to get out of the way even if he were able (willing) to move.

The strike never comes. The spike just hovers there, its violent golden glint dimming down to a duller, softer glow, a pulsating heartbeat that matches Rhys’s own. It glows brighter when Rhys’s fingers close around it.

Rhys guides the neural interface to the port on his temple. As always, he feels the click of it sliding home more than he hears it. But this time, the feeling isn’t just inside his head, it’s all throughout his body, flooding through flesh and metal and blood and electricity, and the instance of nothingness that separates physical and simulated reality isn’t empty anymore. It’s still just as dark but now it’s warm, and then it’s even warmer and a bit less dark, like Rhys is facing towards the sun with his eyes closed.

When Rhys opens his eyes, he’s blinded by the brightness around him, and when he can see again, the only thing in his view is a pair of eyes. Blue and green.

“Hey there, kiddo. Been wondering how long you were gonna make me wait.”

He can feel Jack’s breath against his mouth, and then Jack’s mouth is against his mouth, and the world is tilting, spinning, crashing, like the entire simulation is coming apart again, like _Rhys_ himself is coming apart and he’s trying to hold on to Jack for dear life, but it’s _Jack’s_ hands that are holding him together and–

Rhys jerks awake, one hand grabbing the back of the couch to claw himself upright, the other grasping at the neural port. There’s no interface spike in it. No cable winding its way across the floor. The door to the meeting room is closed, the small blue LED on the lock panel indicating the lock is engaged.

He’s in the real world. He’s safe. He’s alone. And he’s stupidly, _painfully_ turned on.

_Gahd. Freaking. Dammit._

Rhys gets up from the couch and drags himself all the way back to his apartment. The divide between the physical world and the simulation may be the same regardless of where the computer is located… but for what he needs to do next, he’d _still_ like to be a few floors away from the VR room, from the simulation, and from… Jack.

* * *

Jack’s next message arrives twenty-one hours after his last; not that Rhys has been counting.

_HJack69: drop by whenever_

Rhys observes the screen for a few moments, waiting for any follow-up. Of which, of course, there’s none. He eyes the neural cable, tempted to upload into the simulation there and then, but pulls himself together enough to leave the new VR room and lock the door.

_Play it cool, man. For all he knows, you haven’t even seen this message yet. This chat doesn’t have ‘read’ notifications._

(Note to self: check if Jack’s side of the chat hasn’t mysteriously developed any such features while Rhys wasn’t looking.)

Rhys buries himself in his inbox, purposefully picking the emails that shouldn’t require more than a quarter of his normal brainpower to deal with. Twenty-something minutes in, rallying even that much concentration proves a struggle, so he pings Drew on the intercom to tell him he’ll be unavailable for the next few hours, locks the door to his office, unlocks the door to the VR room, and then locks that also, before sitting down at the computer.

He stops his hand halfway to the neural cable and reaches for the keyboard instead.

_Atlas1: Are you decent?_

_HJack69: got clothes on if that’s what you mean_

_HJack69: jury’s still out otherwise_

_Atlas1: As fucking if. There’s no jury in six galaxies that would acquit you._

_HJack69: fine_

_HJack69: i plead guilty_

_HJack69: on the charge of being a handsome bastard_

_Atlas1: No, just a plain bastard._

_HJack69: PLAIN?_

_HJack69: i'm insulted_

_HJack69: and you’re a liar_

_Atlas1: ??_

_HJack69: you had a crush on me_

_HJack69: way back when_

Rhys watches his fingers fly across the keyboard punching out a furious ‘no I fucking did NOT’, then takes a deep breath and erases the message. He stares the screen down for a few seconds, tapping his fingers on the desk. The best response to Jack’s last message would be no response at all.

Alternatively… Rhys feels a smirk crawl into the corner of his mouth as he types.

_Atlas1: Yes. I did._

_Atlas1: Way back when._

There’s no response for a good twenty seconds, which can mean one of two things. One, Jack is actually speechless. Two, he hasn’t seen the message. Now Rhys really wishes the chat did have ‘read’ notifications.

Another twenty or so seconds later, a response comes through.

_HJack69: ouch_

Rhys’s smirk blooms into a full-on grin. He leans to the back of his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Yeah. How do you like _that_ , you smooth son-of-a-bitch? Yes, yes, he knows he shouldn’t have gotten into a verbal duel with Jack in the first place, but _damn_ , does it feel good to win for a change.

_(Is it just the win that feels good, kiddo? Or the thought that I don’t like the fact you longer have that crush?)_

(Does it matter?)

_(Asked and answered.)_

(Shut up.)

Rhys has maybe a minute to bask in the moment until the chat window blinks at him again.

_HJack69: anyway_

_HJack69: you coming down or what?_

Rhys has no idea whether his expression in the real world will translate into his simulated projection when he uploads, so just in case, he pulls his face back to neutral before plugging in the neural cable. This time, the moment of transition between the realities is just long enough for him to realize he hasn’t checked if the virtual space has the same layout as last time, and to wonder if there’s any chance of him clipping through some new walls or furniture Jack has coded in. (He can’t actually clip through _Jack,_ can he? Rhys is pretty sure the software has checks against that. No checks against ending up face-to-face with him, though. Just like… No, Rhys. Don’t even go there.)

When Rhys opens his eyes, he finds out two things. One, Jack _has_ changed the layout of the place since Rhys last saw it. But two, the risk of Rhys clipping through walls is pretty much non-existent, on account of there being no walls to speak of. No ceilings, either, and no floor aside from what the simulation interprets as ground level.

The place isn’t empty, though. There are clusters of furniture clearly designating areas: off to the left, a desk and chair (plus a lamp hanging from thin air) signal ‘office’; directly in front of Rhys, a couple of leather armchairs around a coffee table suggest ‘meeting space’. Jack himself is slouched across one of the armchairs, facing away from Rhys. He’s dressed in a yellow Hyperion sweater and jeans (his blazer and labcoat are slung across the back of a matching leather couch, off to the side). 

Still apparently oblivious to Rhys’s presence, Jack taps a sneaker on air while chewing on a marker and leafing through a stapled stack of papers. His left hand lazily gestures at a floating screen nearby. Rhys watches a message appear in the chat.

_HJack69: take a picture, it’ll last longer_

Prior to this moment, Rhys didn’t know if the simulation supported blushing. The feeling in his cheeks now is proof positive that it does. Rhys clears his throat before speaking.

“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“You didn’t.” Jack waves a hand at the room without looking up from the papers. “I’m almost done here. Sit your ass down, take five, or whatever.”

“Take five?” Rhys crosses his arms. “You told me to come down ‘whenever’. I assumed that meant you were _already_ done. Not _almost_.”

Jack shoots him a look over his shoulder. “And I assumed you were gonna come by when you had a moment, cupcake, not drop everything to rush over here. Whatever happened to having a company to run?”

Is this some bullshit power move, Rhys wonders. Like, whoever’s in charge never shows up on time? Or is this payback for the chat earlier? 

Both, concludes Rhys ten (yes, _ten_ ) minutes later, after he’s been banned from pacing the room _(If you want me to stop throwing things at you, stop giving me a moving target)_ , from standing around _(Your swaying is giving me motion sickness, do you_ really _want me to puke all over your earnings statement?),_ and even from looking at Jack too much _(Okay, seriously, take a goddamn picture, kid)._ Definitely both.

In the end, the only thing Rhys can do without provoking sarcasm and/or projectiles is to sit very quietly and study the coffee table. So that’s what he does. The coffee table is scattered with a mess of items: assorted pieces of paper; three cups of coffee, barely touched; a scale model of Helios, no more than five inches tall, but even from where Rhys can see, incredibly detailed. (He’d love a closer look, but he can already imagine half a dozen responses Jack might give if he asked.)

Paper rustles as Jack flips over a page. Rhys can’t help but wonder about the exact mechanics of how Jack produced the hard copy from the digital file Rhys had sent him. Did he code in a printer? Just pull the pages out of thin air?

“Didn’t know you were a read-things-on-paper kind of guy,” Rhys remarks as Jack spits out the marker to circle something on the page.

“And just like that, the list of things you don’t know about me is only a universe-minus-one items long,” Jack mutters without looking up.

Rhys steals another glance at Jack while stifling a frown. Is Jack actually pissed off? He’d have to be, if he’s not in the mood to talk about his favorite subject, aka himself. So what’s gotten his hackles up? It can’t just be the banter in the chat.

Rhys’s eyes travel back to the document in Jack’s hands.

Atlas’s first annual report. Technically, the least confidential document in the information package. Anyone with even a basic understanding of business can download the report from ECHOnet and get a reasonably transparent story about Atlas’s rebirth and first-year performance.

Jack, however, is the one of only two people in the universe who know the story behind the story. The one that starts with an unlikely almost-friendship, continues with broken promises and crashed space stations, and then, just when you think it should end, it picks up again, with share certificates collected from the ruins of Helios and Hyperion patents sold to Maliwan to raise working capital.

Under the surface, the first year of Atlas is nothing like its sleek and polished public-facing annual report. It’s a story with blood in it, a story about a company that Rhys has built literally out of the corpse of Hyperion. And if that weren’t bad enough, then don’t forget _who_ turned Hyperion into a corpse in the first place. Because Jack certainly hasn’t forgotten that.

What the fuck were you thinking, Rhys. What the FUCK were you thinking. Just get out of here, get out of here right now, never come back, never talk to Jack again, never– 

_smack_

Rhys jumps and yelps when something soft hits him in the face. Following the rebounded projectile with his eyes, he sees a purple stress ball on the floor. It’s shaped like a unicorn.

He looks up at Jack. At some point during Rhys’s brief descent into a panic attack, the man had sat up straight in the armchair, set the annual report down, and made a fourth mug of coffee appear.

“Mr. Strongfork, glad you could join us,” Jack grumbles, takes a sip from the mug and makes a face. “You know, every time I code in one of these, I think, maybe _this_ time it won’t taste like skag shit. No such luck. Smell’s getting better, though, that’s a start. Anyway. Ready to pay attention?”

You can still walk away, thinks Rhys. They haven’t made any deals yet, not even a handshake agreement. Call the whole thing off. Let Jack be (work out exactly what ‘letting Jack be’ means… later). Figure out Atlas on your own.

He can figure out Atlas on his own, right? He’s gotten this far. He can just continue, slow and steady. Atlas may not become a powerhouse, but it’ll be his, and he’ll know he’s done it all without any help from _Jack_ of all people.

Sure, Atlas won’t be the company of his dreams, but it will be _a_ company. A brand. A market share. It won’t be a Jacobs, it won’t be a Maliwan, it won’t be a Hyperion. But it’ll be something that might, _eventually_ be its own version of Vladof or Tediore. Something steady. Something reliable. A solid B-lister. 

Rhys feels a hot prickling sensation under his skin, a quiet but growing pounding in his temples. He did _not_ survive Pandora, Hyperion _and_ Handsome Goddamn Jack to build a fucking B-lister of a company. And if now, for whatever twisted reasons that man might have, Handsome Goddamn Jack is willing to help Rhys make Atlas something spectacular, something amazing, something that will make all that crap worth it… then walking away from this opportunity will make Rhys a stupid goddamn idiot.

“Yeah,” Rhys starts out, trying to sound all cool and casual, and abandons the attempt immediately. There’s no way he can hit either tone, and if you try for cool and miss, the only thing you hit is pathetic. That’s the last thing he needs to feel right now. “I’m all ears.”

* * *

Jack takes another sip of the Skag Shit Dark Roast while he considers Rhys. He’s not sure why he’s still drinking it, ‘cause the taste hasn’t improved since the last time he coded it. Maybe it’s the view that makes it just that little bit more palatable.

“Before we start,” Jack says, drumming his fingers on the report. “How _nice_ do you want me to be, cupcake?”

“I, uh…” Rhys blinks a few times. “I didn’t think nice was an option.”

“Hey, I can go easy on you if you like. It’s your first time, after all. Wouldn’t wanna make you cry or anything.”

“Just… give it to me straight, I guess.”

“A man after my own heart. Or code, I guess? Anyway. You wanted my impressions?” Jack taps his index finger on the cover. He watches Rhys’s eyes dart from his face to his hand and back, holds his gaze for a few seconds. “You’re not shit at this, Rhys.” 

Jack can’t help but smirk at the exhilaration that fleets over the kid’s face before getting toned down to a smile.

“Why, thank you. I try.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been putting the hours in. For your first year, these figures ain’t half bad. No profits, duh, but eh, any company that makes a profit in their first year is a freaking money launderer. Nah, this early on, it’s not profits you should be worried about, it’s capital, connections, and making a damn good product. And you’ve got… well, I wouldn’t say you’ve _got_ that, but you’ve got the _makings_ of that. At this rate, you’ll break even in another year, make an actual profit in three. Sure, you’re gonna need cash to keep the lights on while you do that, maybe even pay some salaries if you wanna go crazy, but you got that big-ass equity injection just in the last quarter." Jack flips through the report looking for the balance sheet. "What happened there, by the way, rich uncle leave you a small moon in his will or something?”

“No, just sold my share of loot from a Vault.”

“You… what?” Jack lets the papers drop from his fingers and leans forward across the coffee table.

“Yeah.” Rhys sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Vault of the Traveler.”

“Wait, was that the whole…” Jack wiggles his fingers through the air. “Hullabaloo with the… little ball with legs? Gorsky? Gordon?”

“Gortys. We got her back and opened the Vault. That was a few months ago.”

“Well, holy shit, kid.” Jack leans back, leaving the coffee mug behind to join the other three. “What the hell do you need _me_ for? Sounds like you’ve got things covered.”

And doesn’t he just. Let’s recap, hmm?

One. Old Atlas assets, obliquely referenced in the annual report as “reclaimed from the previous owner” without any real description of the reclamation process. The previous owner being Hyperion, the undescribed process can only mean that the little shit took the Atlas share certificate from Jack’s office some time after their little showdown in the wreck of Helios.

Two. New Atlas assets, including vending machines, by now positioned in strategic locations on Pandora. Model numbers suspiciously similar to the latest generation of the vending machines listed on Hyperion’s books, which Jack still has at the back of his mind-database after his brief stint as a space station.

Three. Working capital raised through sales of intellectual property, namely, patents. None for complete weapons (thank freaking gods for _that)_ , but proprietary Hyperion design components alone fetched enough dough. Oh, and to add insult to injury, the kid got fucking _screwed_ on the money he got for the scopes used on the Invader line. Those bastards at Maliwan had been drooling over those for _years,_ and he let the design go for a freaking _fraction_ of its real value. 

Four. Freaking Vault of the Freaking Traveler. A pile of money and lifetime bragging rights. Neither of which he’d have now if he hadn’t collected the freaking _beacon_ from Jack’s office. That Jack had told him about.

Yeah. The kid _doesn’t_ need Jack. One way or another, he’d already gotten everything he could’ve wanted from him. Sure, yeah, Jack may not have delivered on the original ‘let’s rule Hyperion together’ deal, and he’d gone back on his word and backstabbed the hell out of Rhys, yeah, okay, whatever, he did that. But if you wanna get back at someone for being a dick to you, well, how much better _can_ you do than to destroy their company and use their resources and intel to build your own while keeping them trapped in a freaking shapeless void?

What the hell _did_ Rhys let Jack out of the ECHO eye for? It’s not like being trapped in there wasn’t proof enough that Rhys had won. Did Rhys want him to know exactly _how much_ of a winner he was? Well, mission fucking accomplished.

“I… don’t,” says Rhys.

“Huh?” Jack drags his eyes away from the unicorn stress ball on the floor, gives up his half-hearted attempt to code it back into his hands so he can throw it at Rhys’s face again, smack that smug little smile (that would’ve looked nice under other circumstances) right off it.

Looking at Rhys’s face, he finds the smile is gone without his intervention, replaced by a look that’s almost… weary. Jack isn’t sure he isn’t just projecting his own feelings onto it, though.

“I don’t- I _haven’t_ got things covered, Jack,” says Rhys. Yeah, okay. Definitely not projecting. “Yeah, I’ve been putting the hours in. Twenty of them, seven days a week. Three days on that little Vault adventure, that was the first and only time off I had in the past year-”

“Three _days?_ To open a Vault? Three… freaking… _days?.._ ” Jack growls. Rhys rolls his eyes.

“If it makes you feel any better, I spent two of them being dragged along the ground or marched at gunpoint.”

“You know what?” Jack scoffs. “That does make me feel better, pumpkin. Go on.”

“As I was saying. What you’re looking at-” Rhys points at the report “-this is all I’ve got. This is as far as I can take it. I’ve poured all of my resources-”

 _“Your_ resources…” Jack mutters under his breath. “Yeah, sure. You could’ve gotten three times the money for those scopes, by the way.”

Rhys sighs. “Noted. Any other shots you wanna take at me before you let me talk?”

“Fire your speech writer. Your CEO address at the front is shit.”

“That’s- yeah, okay. Will do.” Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now. As I was _saying_. I’ve poured all the resources I could get my hands on into this, I’ve used all my connections, I’m working twenty-hour days, and this is what I’ve got to show for it. This… is as good as Atlas gets.”

Jack shrugs. “Looks good enough to me. Give it a bit of time, it’ll grow into something solid, a mid-size thing with steady profits. Just do what you’ve been doing, don’t take stupid risks, and- You’re what, twenty-three? By the time you hit forty, you’ll be drinking at the same parties as the guy who runs Tediore.”

Rhys leans forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, and looks Jack square in the face. Is this the first time he’s done that since he got here today? 

“I don’t want to drink with Tediore, Jack. At forty or right now, and I’m twenty-nine, by the way. I don’t want a mid-sized thing with steady profits. I don’t want ‘good enough’.”

The glint in Rhys’s eyes is lighting up his entire face, but his voice gets lower and darker, and at that moment Jack can actually _believe_ he’s closer to thirty than twenty. Jack feels a smile crawling into the corner of his mouth.

“What _do_ you want, cupcake?” he asks. Matching Rhys’s tone. Holding Rhys’s gaze. “To return Atlas to its golden days?”

“Fuck that.” Rhys’s voice drops even lower. “I want my era of Atlas to _be_ its golden days. I want people to hear the name Atlas and only ever think of _my_ company. I want it to be spectacular. I want it to be _legendary._ ” Rhys stands up and leans most of the way across the coffee table, his hands pressing into the tabletop inches away from Jack’s knees. “I want to do for Atlas what you did for Hyperion.”

“Well then,” says Jack, tilting forward just enough to lean his hands on his knees. With Rhys’s face less than a foot away, he can see the flecks of gold in the natural amber of his right eye. “I got good news for you, Rhys.”

“Yeah?..”

“If you’re looking for spectacular and legendary…” Jack grins with his teeth. “I’m your guy.”

* * *

Rhys isn’t sure when he’s gotten to his feet, or leaned across the coffee table, or brought his face so close (too close, too close, way too close) to Jack’s. All he knows is that most of his view is now filled with a pair of mismatched eyes and a toothy grin, and while Jack’s face isn’t yet close enough for Rhys to _feel_ Jack’s breath on his skin, it’s close enough that he can _hear_ him breathing. Maybe even close enough that Jack can hear Rhys’s frantic heartbeat, too.

The grin fades from Jack’s face, giving way to an expression that’s almost thoughtful. And then Rhys’s heart comes to a dead stop, with lungs to follow a second later, because Jack’s fingers are suddenly on Rhys’s chin. A thumb rests just below Rhys’s lower lip. A knuckle presses against the soft flesh under his jaw as he swallows.

“Hmm.” Jack tilts Rhys’s head up, then to the side, then back down. His eyes are still locked on Rhys’s. “Say, cupcake…”

“Mmh?..” is all Rhys can manage.

“Who did your upgrades?”

“Wha–” Rhys blinks. “Upgrades?”

“The eye, the arm? I can tell it’s not Hyperion tech, but I’m still picking up some familiar flavors. What’s up with that?” Jack’s grin returns, sharper than before. Rhys’s breathing takes a few moments longer to restart.

“You’re… not wrong.” Rhys really wishes Jack would let go of his chin already. (He knows he could just step away, step back, and be free, but. But.)

“Uh-huh?”

“It was Hyperion, originally. The eye, at least. Two generations newer than my old model. I’ve made some modifications since.”

“Yeah… figures. Look up for me, will ya, Rhysie. Uh-huh…” Jack hums, leaning closer to examine the edges of the eye. “Left… right… Oh yeah, I’m seeing it now. Still got that edge pattern… Nice.”

Jack’s fingers aren’t moving Rhys’s face around anymore, but don’t let go of him, either. Just keep him exactly where he is, while Jack considers him with a smirk that’s way too self-satisfied even for Jack.

“What?” Rhys mutters.

“Oh, nothing. Just glad to know I haven’t lost my touch. Even under all the upgrades, I can still spot what’s mine.”

Rhys stares at Jack as the words slowly sink in. After an afternoon of dealing with Jack’s bullshit, his brain is already feeling like a glass bauble, liable to crack at the slightest provocation. But now, struck by Jack’s words multiplied by the sound of Jack’s voice and raised to the power of Jack’s _goddamn_ smirk, the glass bauble that is currently Rhys’s mind doesn’t crack as much as shatters, sending glass shards everywhere.

When the shards start coming back together, there’s only one coherent thought they manage to form.

_How fucking dare you._

“Jack…” Rhys’s voice sounds unusually low even to himself.

“Yeah?..”

Rhys reaches for the next thought, but the shards of his mind are in flux again, and there’s no longer just one thought, but a throng of them, all clamoring for attention.

 _Just who the fuck do you think you are, Jack. You’re not in control here._ (No, Rhys, don’t say that.)

 _I’m not_ yours _, Jack. And whatever you may think, I’ve never been._ (Or that.)

 _You don’t get to talk to me like this, Jack. You don’t get to toy with me anymore. Cut the crap, or this will go badly for you._ (Definitely not that.)

 _If you really think you can spot what’s yours, Jack, why don’t you do something about it._ (For fuck’s sake, Rhys, no.)

“Get your hands off me, Jack.” (Thank god. Good job, Rhys.)

Jack holds Rhys’s gaze for a second longer before letting go of his chin and leaning back in his armchair. Finally free, Rhys straightens out and takes a step back. Somehow, even though he’s looking down at Jack now, he feels less in control, more… on display.

“So, how about that arm?” asks Jack. “Mind if I take a look at that next?”

“Some other time,” says Rhys as he reaches to pull on the neural cable and leave the simulation. (Good job. Excellent job. Now just get out of here before–) “If you ask nicely.”

(...For fuck’s sake, Rhys.)


	8. Risk and Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HJack69: srsly, hear me out
> 
> HJack69: i’m suggesting we get super clear on the deliverables 
> 
> HJack69: then, when you know exactly what i’m offering, we can negotiate my fee
> 
> HJack69: sound fair?
> 
> Atlas1: I suppose.
> 
> Atlas1: One question.
> 
> Atlas1: Why are you so cooperative all of a sudden?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wondered what Jack gets up to in the VR while Rhys is gone? Well, here you go.

_10:45 pm_

_Atlas1: Have you given it more thought?_

_HJack69: you wanna be more specific, pumpkin_

_HJack69: got a lot on my mind_

_Atlas1: Do you want to work together or not?_

_HJack69: work for you, you mean_

_Atlas1: For Atlas._

_HJack69: same difference_

_HJack69: draw wages_

_HJack69: from Atlas_

_HJack69: yeaaaaaah, not feeling it_

_Atlas1: I’m not asking you to work in a cubicle. I’m offering you a C-suite position. VP of anything you can think of._

_HJack69: babe_

_HJack69: i don’t do vice anything_

_Atlas1: Okay. What job title do you want?_

_HJack69: co-CEO_

_Atlas1: Not a chance._

_HJack69: too bad_

_Atlas1: Look, if you don’t want a job title, you can be an independent consultant? Outside expert?_

_HJack69: oh yeah_

_HJack69: sounds super fun_

_HJack69: co-CEO_

_Atlas1: NO._

_Atlas1: That ship has sailed._

_HJack69: sailed_

_HJack69: crashed_

_HJack69: now you’ve built a dinghy out of the wreckage_

_HJack69: and inviting me to swab decks for ya_

_Atlas1: God freaking dammit, Jack._

_Atlas1: Can you check your ego for one freaking SECOND?_

_HJack69: lemme think_

_HJack69: nah_

_Atlas1: FINE._

_Atlas1: ttyl_

_HJack69: sweet dreams, cupcake_

_HJack69: come back with a better offer_

_Atlas1: ass_

_HJack69: hmm_

_Atlas1: THAT WAS NOT AN OFFER_

_Atlas1: GOOD NIGHT_

_11:00 pm_

Jack watches the chat window, which follows him on his slow stroll through the simulated space. Minutes pass with no further follow-up on Rhys’s all-caps sign-off. Huh. The kid must be more pissed off than usual; most days, he’s an ‘and one more thing’ kinda guy.

Waving the floating screen out of existence, Jack checks the time. Eleven at night. If Rhys really _is_ done talking for the night, now he won’t show up till morning. Probably. Almost certainly. But that _almost_ , that tiny, but non-zero possibility of a message at an odd hour, is enough to make Jack re-summon the screen every hour or so, just to make sure he’s not missing anything.

Is he that desperate to hear from Rhys? No. Is he so fucking bored in here at nights that any message at all would be an entertainment? Maybe. But that’s not the real reason why receiving a message from Rhys at an odd hour would be nothing short of monumental. The real reason is… well, here’s the deal.

Jack has no way of knowing what device(s) Rhys is using to text him on here, and where such device(s) may be located, but he’s got enough data by now to deduce a few things. One: messages showing up in clusters rather than spaced out during the day suggest a computer, not an ECHO. Two: messages being limited to (workaholic) business hours suggest the computer is in Rhys’s office, not home. And three: the increasing number of such clusters during the day suggests the computer’s location may have started out as somewhere reasonably remote, but has since then been moved to be closer at hand.

So if Rhys does show up in the chat at an odd hour, way too late for him to be at the office, that’ll strongly suggest he either made a clone of the chat program on some home-based system or actually added it to his ECHO communicator. Both options, especially the latter one, would suggest... _network._

Network. Just thinking the word makes Jack’s head spin. Sure, it would be firewalled to hell and back, limited to only let the chat packets through, totally hamstringed… but it’d still be lightyears ahead of what Jack’s got right now, which is zero, zilch, nada, the most offline that has ever offlined in the history of offline. 

Out of habit rather than any actual expectation, Jack reaches out with his mind and code, in all the familiar directions, to parts of the simulation that feel just that tiny bit less solid, suggesting that’s where network access would be, if this place had network access. There’s nothing, of course. This place remains physically removed from network, any network, the separation more solid than a mile-thick concrete wall, ‘cause a wall, given enough time and effort, can be penetrated, but the space between Jack and a network isn’t a wall at all, it’s a gap, permanent and unbridgeable, something that can only be achieved by hardware, not software means.

Jack’s very teeth ache at the idea of being able to touch a network, or even see one, for starters. The things he could do with even a scrap, a shred, a _byte_ of access. Even limited. Even local. The _things_ he could _do._

Jack twirls a finger through the air, summoning a 3D model of Pandora to float before him. He shapes the oceans and the continents and the eridium scar almost entirely from memory (or what he thinks of as his human memory as opposed to deeper databanks), then fills in the gaps based on the tentative map included in the Atlas annual report. He watches glowing pinpricks appear on the map, marking Atlas vending machine locations. Oasis. The Dust. Thousand Cuts. Lynchwood. That one puts a shadow of a smile on his face. It’s banished by the marker that appears next: Sanctuary.

Yeah. Just let him into the Atlas network, and he’ll make his way to any of those places inside an hour. A day if he decides to be careful and maybe pull it off without Rhysie noticing. Lay in wait in any and/or all of those vending machines. Slip some of his code into every weapon they digistruct: not his complete AI, but just enough to get him places. Then wait for enough bandits to find better weapons and sell their old ones back through Kincaid’s machines, gather enough of his code snippets to put himself back together… and hello-o-o, ECHOnet proper. And then. And _then._

Commandeer every piece of tech connected to the ECHOnet. Every communicator, every catch-a-ride, every terminal controlling turrets and power cores and the remaining trains and a few bunkers’ worth of loaders probably still buried under Opportunity and… 

Jack waves a hand over the floating planet in front of him, and grins as he watches the miniature Pandora erupt in explosions. Yeah. Crash, burn and detonate a good chunk of the place, find his way to the casino transporter, set the rest to blow as he leaves. With some luck, he might even find some EMP charges, put those on a timer to trigger once he’s safely off the place. Cut off that crap hole of a planet from all communications, leave the place to burn and rot, the bandits to eat each other. It’s nothing less than they deserve.

Meanwhile, Jack can make himself at home inside the super awesome giant Jackpot at the casino, wake up the army of loaders and hello-o-o, the rest of the universe. Jack’s back, baby. Bet you didn’t see _that_ coming.

Still grinning, Jack zooms out from the model, makes the burning Pandora spin as he watches. This far out, though, it’s weird to see the planet without the moon. Jack taps a finger on the air to make Elpis appear. Even now, even next to the burning wreckage of Pandora, there’s something weirdly soothing about the moon’s purple glow. 

Hmm. What _would_ he do with Elpis? Let it be, or blast it to pieces also, finish what that crazy Dahl chick had started all those years ago? Jack watches the moon as he considers its fate, much like he watched it on so many nights from his office. 

Without thinking much, Jack reaches a hand in the direction of the coffee table, halfway across the space he thinks of as his quarters, and the miniature of Helios materializes in front of him, the perfect size for the current scale of the astronomical model in front of him.

Holding the model of Helios with two fingers, Jack places it in its usual spot between Pandora and Elpis, then waves the whole system towards the ceiling, makes it bigger, bigger, as big as it can get while still fitting in his field of view. He lies down on the floor and watches the model: the burning planet, the purple moon, the space station in the lagrangian orbit. 

After a while, Jack waves a hand to put out the fires on Pandora’s surface. With another wave, clusters of light pop up here and there, instead: not fire this time, but bright electric lights. A couple of smaller satellites join Helios in orbit. A space link appears between the planet and its moon. Jack watches the model above him grow ever more complicated, growing extra bristles of tech and infrastructure as the planet and the moon keep spinning in their orbits. Helios remains perfectly poised between them: a terror and a threat on some days, a watcher and a guardian on others. And on every single day, a reminder of who holds the real power on Pandora.

Speaking of Helios… whether or not Jack would cut Pandora off from ECHOnet, the station definitely would need a new comms array, ‘cause the old system has been designed for point-to-point communication. He’d need something capable of actual planet-wide broadcasting, instead of jury-rigging the existing system on a case-by-case basis. He knows exactly how he’d set it up, too.

Jack gets to his feet, dispels the images of Pandora and Elpis, pulls Helios down to eye level. The model is currently about Jack’s height: perfect for the theoretical exercise of designing a new communications array for a non-existent space station.

What, did you think Jack has forgotten this is all make-believe? ‘Course he hasn’t. He remembers there’s no more Helios now. He remembers he’s got no power on Pandora, or anywhere else, for that matter. He remembers he’s fucking _dead,_ okay. But you gotta pass the time somehow, right?

_01:00 am_

Jack leans his hands against the wall of the shower cubicle, bows his head and lets himself sink into the sensation of hot water hitting the back of his neck before coursing between his shoulder blades and down his back. He’s pretty sure he’s taken more showers here than the number of days he’s been in the simulation, and he knows he didn’t technically _need_ even one of them. 

But that’s got nothing to do with anything. He just _likes_ showering here, probably more than he did during his lifetime (well, not _his_ lifetime, technically; the other Jack’s, the original Jack’s, the Jack whose memories he’s got). It’s not like he (well, the other he) had anything against showers, but there was nothing special about them, either. Back then, Jack – well, the other Jack; okay, fuck this, enough with the disclaimers, you get the point. Back then, except on a very shitty day or in some sweet-ass company, a shower was just a thing Jack didn’t think twice about.

In here, though… The touch of water on his skin, the temperature, the white noise, it’s all grounding in a way that shouldn’t be. ‘Cause there’s no actual body for Jack to ground himself in and, if you wanna be technical, there isn’t a mind to do the grounding, either. It’s all still code: a mind of code programmed to think, inside a physical-ish shape programmed to look like him, coded to have the ability to move and stand and feel things, including the jets of nothing coded to feel like hot water.

 _Still,_ thinks Jack as he takes a step back and cranes his head backwards, closing his eyes as the falling water hits his upturned face. _That’s some damn good coding._

There are no walls in Jack’s simulated space. After scrapping the default Atlas accommodation, he tried a few options, including his office, both penthouses (Helios and Opportunity) and his beach house on Aquator. Nothing sat quite right. Each place for its own reasons, but also, Jack came to realize, the biggest problem was walls. Walls and ceilings and _boundaries_ in general. No matter how big the place would be on the inside, no matter what views he made the windows show, he still _knew_ that beyond it was the white nothing. Even if he never left his new house, he’d still know. 

So, if you can’t avoid the weirdness, might as well lean into it, right? Hence, no walls (anything that needs hanging can hang from thin air). No ceilings (ditto). No floor surfaces except for something to designate areas: a rug here and there, and a patch of tiles in front of the shower cubicle.

(After his second or third shower, Jack actually slipped on the tiles and fell on his ass, and spent the next five minutes alternating between swearing and laughing like a moron ‘cause it fucking _hurt,_ and he still wasn’t used to the fact that things _could_ fucking hurt, and the fact that things could fucking hurt was _amazing_ , but also, it fucking _hurt_.)

Jack shuts off the water, steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and brushes his wet hair out of his face. He contemplates his mask, left on the bathroom vanity before he got in, and spares a glance to his reflection in the fogged-up mirror suspended on nothing. 

_You know you actually don’t need it, right?_

_Yeah,_ thinks Jack, even as his hands pick up the mask and fit it over his face. _I know,_ he thinks as his fingers run the familiar course around the clasps.

Two presses on the forehead, a thumb clicking down on the chin. _I know I could just make the scar go away._

A quick brush down either side of the jaw. _I know I could make myself look any way I want._

A careful pinch in the inner corners of the eyes. _I fucking know, okay._

Jack wipes the mirror with his hand and surveys his reflection, fully visible now.

_Then why don’t you?_

Jack’s not prepared to answer that, so he just goes about getting dressed the rest of the way. 

He could, of course, ‘magic’ himself dry and clothed, complete with styled hair, just like he did the first time in front of his stunned one-Rhys audience. He doesn’t _need_ to dry himself with the towel, or put his clothes on one item at a time, or style his hair using a decent simulacrum of pine-scented hair gel.

Jack doesn’t need any of that any more than he needed the, what, seventh shower in four days. But needs have got nothing to do with anything. He _likes_ it. And what’s the point of having an afterlife if you don’t get to do things you like, right?

_03:00 am_

Lying on his back on the couch, Jack tosses the unicorn stress ball up towards the non-existent ceiling, over and over, just to see how high it goes. He’s yet to find an upper boundary. He wonders, lazily, if the ceiling does go up forever, or if there is some kind of event horizon up there after all, if there’s any point after which the fake gravity stops working or gets reversed, if it’s possible to fall into the white-out if you go high enough.

Way back when, his penthouse on Helios was at the top of taller of the two spires of the H (taller than the other by the height of the penthouse), and most of the outer walls were glass. The ceiling, too. Unlike in his office, the space view wasn’t permanent: you _could_ control the tint and make the walls and ceiling opaque, in case you didn’t wanna see space in five out of six cardinal directions. If you were gonna be boring like that.

Jack draws a large rectangle in the air, sends it towards the non-existent ceiling, wills it to expand until it fills the view and fills up with stars. Despite the strain at the back of his mind (it’s a pretty freaking big star map to keep up), he feels a grin crawl onto his face. No, seriously, if you had a view like that, why would you _ever_ not wanna see it?

...Okay, fine, the bedroom ceiling of all things could throw the unprepared in for a loop. Opening your eyes to a void full of stars and no visible boundary stopping you from falling into it, that’ll fuck up a half-awake brain nine times out of ten. Jack remembers the first time Meg had stayed the night. He was woken up by a short yelp and found her lying flat, back pressed into the mattress, hands clutching the sheets, eyes shut tight. It took some coaxing to get her to open her eyes; that, and some bad jokes (e.g. _told you I was gonna make you see stars, babe_ ).

Megs got accustomed to the star ceiling remarkably fast, though (took her even less time than it took Jack when he’d first installed the ceiling, but he wasn’t gonna tell her that). More often than not, she’d be the one to make sure the space view was there whenever they’d be having sex in the bed. No surprises there: he had to look awesome as all hell with the starry background behind him. ( _I love seeing you like this, Jack._ ) Then again, the feeling was pretty damn mutual, thinks Jack, retrieving his-not-his memories of Meg silhouetted against the deep black star-studded void, outer edges of her form made sharper by starlight glow.

(He never got to see Nisha like that, though; not sure she ever even set foot in the penthouse. The rough-and-tumble crazy cowgirl didn’t share Jack’s taste for finer things. Too fancy for her blood, she’d say about most stuff on Helios and Opportunity.)

 _You know what would be great,_ thinks Jack as he contemplates the simulated space window above him. _To get laid, that’s what. That’d be pretty fucking awesome._

He’s pretty sure the sim would allow it: he’s got ample proof that the program supports boners _and_ orgasms. (Why that’s the case, he’ll never know, but hey, the boys at old Atlas must’ve known how to party. If Jack had a hat to tip at them, he would.)

So the tech is definitely on his side. That just leaves the question of participants. And, given Jack’s visitor list, the question isn’t so much ‘who’s DTF around here?’ as ‘would Rhys be into it?’

Jack folds his hands behind his head and considers the matter. He’s usually pretty damn good at sizing up people, including but not limited to: how likely someone will be to budge from their ‘final offer’ at the negotiating table; how likely someone will be to respond to threats of violence and/or strategic blackmail; and, naturally, how long it might take to get someone wrapped around his dick (for extra credit: how long it might take to get someone wrapped around his dick if they’re the same person who just totally compromised on their ‘final offer’ at the negotiating table thanks to threats of violence and/or strategic blackmail; for double extra credit: all of the above, with the caveat of never leaving the actual negotiation table).

And you’d think that someone like Rhys, who wouldn’t know a poker face if it hit him into his blushing-at-the-drop-of-a-hat face, should be an open book in a large font, complete with footnotes, cross-references and helpful diagrams. But the truth is, Jack’s still having trouble getting a read on him, maybe ‘cause the kid is wrapped in a bundle of neuroses too thick even for Jack to see through.

Like, sure, he’s jumpy around Jack, doubly so whenever Jack strays into his personal space. But is it a) ‘by the way, I totally lied, I still got that massive crush on you’ kinda jumpy, or b) ‘well, you did try to murder me with your space station AND my own hand, so, yeah, I _am_ jumpy around you’ kinda jumpy? Or c) ‘all of the above’? Jack could work with (a) and (c), but (b) alone wouldn’t get him far. Jack doesn’t want the kid to be _actually_ scared for his life around him.

Then there’s the chat. Rhys is definitely much more confident when there’s a screen between them, and by now, Jack’s registered a whole handful of lines that, under other circumstances he’d definitely file under ‘flirty’. But this ain’t other circumstances, and misreading just plain banter for flirty banter would come across as fucking embarrassing bordering on desperate. Jack doesn’t need that, either.

He could just be direct, of course. It’s not like he needed _strategies_ to get laid back in his lifetime, not beyond ‘hi, Handsome Jack, wanna bone?’. In his current case, he wouldn’t even need the greeting _or_ the introduction.

Okay, let’s say he does that. Just goes ahead and straight-up propositions the kid. What’s gonna happen next? Logically, there can really be only two outcomes. One, Rhysie is up for it, and they bone, which will be cool (except Rhys will probably make it weird afterwards). Two, Rhys is _not_ up for it, and they don’t, which is eh, okay, fine, what _ever_ (except Rhys will probably make it weird afterwards).

In the end, it all comes down to risk vs. reward. Risk: putting himself into a weaker position for any other negotiations, ‘cause unrequited interest, however casual and unrelated, will always do that to you. Reward: getting those long legs wrapped around him, getting to see exactly how far the chest tattoo goes, getting Jack’s own mouth all over that pretty face and neck and throat, and speaking of mouths, getting to see what Rhys’s perfect pouty lips are good for, too, that’ll be fun. For starters.

 _Hey, Jack, were you, like,_ trying _to check if the simulation still supports boners, or?.._

Wow. Okay. He just got hard thinking about Rhys. So that’s a thing that happens now, huh.

_Looks like whether or not the kid is up for it, you certainly are. And some._

Fuck.

Well, at least that answers the question of whether or not he should come on to Rhys: definitely not, not until after they’ve solidified the terms of their cooperation. Until then, Jack needs to keep his head in the game. And if he can get worked up so easily just _thinking_ about the kid… yeah, he’d do best to keep any ideas of sex with Rhys well out of the picture.

Well. Intentions _,_ anyway. That’s what matters. Intentions and actions, he can keep a lid on those. Ideas, now… Jack can entertain any _ideas_ he damn well pleases.

_Really, Jack? Of all the people in the universe, that’s the one you’re gonna be jerking to? Do you need a reminder of how fucked up this is, and on how many levels?_

Nah, thinks Jack. He doesn’t. He remembers it all. Hyperion. Helios. The void. The fact that he’s only here because Rhys decided to bring him back. The fact that for all Jack’s dickish negotiation tactics, Rhys still holds the entirety of Jack’s existence in his hands.

He remembers it all. And he _could_ lie here and watch the fake space window and introspect the crap out of their fucked-up history. Or he could let all that bullshit sit to the side, and just enjoy the thought of fucking an obnoxiously pretty guy six ways to Sunday.

The thought of how that perfectly coiffed hair would look mussed up and stuck to a sweaty forehead; how the curve of his shoulder would look marked up with hickeys.

The thought of how Rhys would definitely blush the whole freaking time; how his flushed skin would feel under Jack’s hands.

The thought of all kinds of sweet noises Jack could draw from him; how Jack’s name would sound falling from those lips.

Yeah. Nothing wrong with enjoying that. Plus, this is the afterlife. Might as well live a little, right?

_05:00 am_

Jack stands by a counter filled to the brim with coffee machines, and watches steaming coffee sizzle its way from a steel nozzle into a small cup. He takes a sip, swishes the drink around his mouth, deems it just passable enough to swallow, then makes a note on a floating whiteboard: _sample 17: provisionally acceptable._

This is the third “provisionally acceptable” result of the current experiment, and probably the best it’s gonna get. It still doesn’t taste like actual coffee (or what Jack is convinced coffee is _supposed_ to taste like), but it smells almost right, and hits most of the right taste beats: the bitter main note, the sour undertones, the sweet aftertaste if adequately sweetened. The trick, it turned out, was to code in something that pretended to be coffee beans and then harangue simulated physics until they correctly exerted the effects of water, temperature and pressure. As a result, even the worst pick of the current batch ( _sample 5: barf city_ ) is still better than Jack’s earlier attempts to summon a ready-made beverage.

Jack saves the code presets for the three passable samples (the beans and the coffeemaker parameters), then despawns the whole counter. He’s tasted so much shitty fake coffee in the past hour, now that he can actually make a halfway decent one, he doesn’t want any. Oh, the irony.

Back in the real world, the worst hour of the day was between three and four in the morning. Here, it tends to be between five (the time by which Jack will have usually exhausted whatever has been keeping him entertained through the night) and six (the time around which Rhys tends to show up in the chat). 

Assuming the kid shows up today at all, that is. Assuming Jack hasn’t properly pissed off literally the one person in the universe that can be bothered to talk to him. You’d think he’d be smarter than that by now. And yet.

 _Nah. He’ll show up. He wants your help. He’s convinced he_ needs _it, too. So he’ll be back. At worst, he’ll sulk for a day. Then come back with another offer. Not co-CEO, of course, you know that’s not happening._

Of course that’s not happening. Why else would Jack be pushing that ridiculous demand like no tomorrow? He knows Rhys isn’t gonna give on that one. Which means the negotiations are gonna stall. Giving Jack more time to bang his head on the one question he can’t seem to answer. 

What does he want? In the past, Jack’s never had any problems answering that: the bigger problem was finding the time to list all the answers. Now, though, in his current state, given the current parameters, most of business as usual – money, power, ambition, conquest – doesn’t really apply anymore.

So when business as usual doesn’t apply anymore, what _does_ Jack want in exchange for helping the kid with Atlas? For discussing business plans, working on new weapon designs, developing marketing strategies, doing everything and anything to resurrect a once formidable company and lead it to heights beyond its old glory? What kind of payment does he want for his time, for his work, for the opportunity to actually do things he’s damn good at? 

_You’re lying if you’re gonna say you don’t know the answer to that, Jack._

Yeah. Jack knows the answer. He just doesn’t like it. ‘Cause the truth is, he’d do it for free. And if he had any money, he’d fucking _pay_ the kid for the privilege, for a life in which Jack’s biggest challenge isn’t the next level in Tetris or wrangling bits of code into drinkable coffee.

Rhys thinks he needs his help. Rhys wants to work together with him. But does the kid have the slightest idea of how much _Jack_ wants and needs it, too? That if the kid just left him to spend a few days in here with nothing to do, Jack would grasp at the first scrap of actual work thrown in his direction like it was a freaking lifeline? (Make it a week with nothing to do, and he might even _thank_ Rhys for it, too. Two weeks, and he’d be begging.)

Ugh. This is bad. 

Jack runs his hands through his hair as he paces the office area of the simulated space. Rhys can’t know this. Rhys can’t be allowed to know this. If he does, there goes any leverage Jack could ever have. 

Which means he’d better come up with a price tag. A plausibly high one, but not so high it’d be a non-starter, like the co-CEO thing. 

What can he ask for? Money means nothing to him in here. A fancy title is a nice ego boost, but just that. Improved living conditions? He’s pretty sure this sim is already as good as it gets. Network access? Yeah, right. Rhys may still be kinda starry-eyed when it comes to Jack, but the degree of offline-ness of the virtual space is proof he’s not a complete idiot.

But Jack’s gotta ask for _something_ . He’s _gotta_. He can’t just go ahead and admit that any work he gets to do will be its own reward. He can’t tell Rhys that right now, more than anything, Jack just wants to… not be bored. 

Okay, yeah, sure, he’d _also_ like to kill Lilith, and build another Helios, and get laid, and take an actual shower and have some actual coffee, and did he mention killing Lilith, but… But. In absence of all that (and maybe even in the presence of all that), he wants a life where he gets to spend his days _figuring shit out_ and _making cool shit happen_ and _winning._ A life where he–

Jack stops pacing.

A life where–

Jack looks around himself, as if afraid that someone might overhear what he’s thinking, ‘cause even without being spoken out loud, this one thought is so ridiculously, humongously big in his mind that he can practically hear it echoing all around him.

A _life._

Jack chuckles, suddenly breathless. Well. And he thought being co-CEO was a big ask.

_Okay, Jack. You wanna be smart about this. You wanna be real. fucking. smart about this._

Yeah. He’s gotta think this through. He can’t just throw that out there. Something this big, that’ll take some groundwork. Thought. Patience. Self-control. (Ugh.)

_Sit your ass down, Jack, and think. Really think. What does it all come down to?_

Rhys. It all comes down to Rhys, and how much he’ll be willing to cooperate.

_Which means…_

Which means Jack’s gotta be more careful talking to the kid. Be a better team player. Don’t piss him off just ‘cause. Stop being such a dick.

_Okay, maybe don’t go quite that far, he’ll get suspicious. How about you just stick to your baseline level of dick?_

Jack rolls his eyes. Oh yeah. Won’t _that_ be fun. Constant self-control and self-censoring. Check yourself before you wreck yourself, twenty-four-seven. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Yeah. This ain’t gonna be easy. And this is probably gonna suck. But he can do it. When the stakes are high enough, Jack can be way more patient than those who know him would give him credit for. And now… the stakes have never been higher.

_6:15 am_

_HJack69: hey_

_6:30 am_

_HJack69: Rhys_

_6:45 am_

_HJack69: Rhysie_

_6:50 am_

_HJack69: pumpkin_

_6:55 am_

_HJack69: cupcake_

_7:00 am_

_HJack69: RHYS_

_7:02 am_

_HJack69: Rhyyyyyyyyyyyyyys_

_Atlas1: WHAT_

_HJack69: ah, you’re alive_

_HJack69: you show up earlier most mornings_

_Atlas1: I have a life outside of this chat._

_HJack69: do you, tho?_

_HJack69: j/k_

_HJack69: anyway_

_HJack69: about last night_

_Atlas1: ?_

_HJack69: i was thinking it over_

_HJack69: and i concluded we’ve been going about it all wrong_

_Atlas1: ?_

_HJack69: in fact_

_HJack69: i’ve been going about it all wrong_

_Atlas1: ???_

_Atlas1: You did NOT just admit you made a mistake._

_HJack69: sure did, babe_

_Atlas1: Are you glitching by any chance?_

_HJack69: not that i know of_

_HJack69: srsly, hear me out_

_Atlas1: Okay…_

_HJack69: this is supposed to be a transaction, right_

_HJack69: what’s a transaction? goods and/or services, some kinda deliverables, provided in exchange for a fee_

_Atlas1: Right…_

_HJack69: so we went ahead and started arguing about the price tag_

_HJack69: with neither of us having a clear idea of what it’s attached to_

_HJack69: no wonder we couldn’t agree_

_Atlas1: So what are you suggesting?_

_HJack69: i’m suggesting we get super clear on the deliverables_

_HJack69: what you want me to do_

_HJack69: what i can do_

_HJack69: etc_

_HJack69: then, when you know exactly what i’m offering, we can negotiate my fee_

_HJack69: sound fair?_

_Atlas1: I suppose._

_Atlas1: Just so you know, there’s nothing, repeat, nothing you can offer that will result in you being Atlas’s co-CEO. That’s just not happening._

_HJack69: lol_

_HJack69: i know, cupcake_

_HJack69: i was just messing with ya about that one_

_Atlas1: So what happens next?_

_HJack69: why don’t you drop by tonight_

_HJack69: around six or seven_

_HJack69: i’ll have something to show you by then_

_Atlas1: One question._

_HJack69: shoot_

_Atlas1: Why are you so cooperative all of a sudden?_

_HJack69: would you believe that i managed to check my ego for a second_

_Atlas1: Nope._

_Hjack69: see, i always knew you weren’t an idiot_

_Atlas1: So where is this contrition coming from?_

_HJack69: well, here’s the thing_

_HJack69: you stormed off last night_

_HJack69: wasn’t sure you were coming back_

_HJack69: and i didn’t like the idea_

_HJack69: so i thought maybe i should piss you off a bit less_

_HJack69: ‘cause, you know, it’s not like i got anyone else to talk to_

_HJack69: you still there?_

_HJack69: any of this coming through?_

_Atlas1: Yes._

_HJack69: bottom line, no need to worry_

_HJack69: any motives behind my perceived contrition are purely selfish_

_HJack69: your old pal Jack is still his usual handsome self_

_Atlas1: Well, that’s a relief._

_HJack69: ikr_

_HJack69: so_

_HJack69: i'll see you tonight?_


	9. Corporate Identities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Before we continue with the business side of things, a word of advice. Personal, like. No matter how much you're freaking out, never let anyone hear you begging the universe for reassurance that you don't suck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the corporate histories relayed by Jack are the result of my playing fast and loose with what little lore we have from BL and its wiki on the subject. Don't hate me if I got some stuff wrong.

It’s half past six when Rhys walks into his office. He drags his feet all the way to the desk, folds into the chair and rubs his temples. A beep from the intercom on his desk makes him jump and curse under his breath. Rhys reaches for the button to answer, but changes his mind at the last moment and hits ‘mute’. The intercom’s red light flashes demandingly, to no avail.

“Not fucking now, Drew…” Rhys mutters, leaning his head on his hands, thumbs still massaging his throbbing temples.

Mere seconds later, there’s a tentative knock on his door. Rhys grits his teeth, lifts his head and wrangles his face into something that counts as an expression rather than a grimace.

“Come in.”

The door opens to admit Atlas’s Executive Secretary, or Rhys’s PA for short. The usually upbeat Drew is currently a picture of equal part professionalism and penitence, from the tips of his dress shoes to the roots of his razor-straight blond ponytail. He takes a few steps into the room, but maintains a respectful distance from Rhys’s desk.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. Can I get you some painkillers?”

“I’m fine, Drew, don’t worry about it.” (Please go away.)

“And I wanted to apologize again about today’s misunderstanding.”

“Don’t. Worry. About it.” (Just go. Please just go.)

“I had been _assured_ that today’s delegation from Torgue was _not_ going to include Mr. Torgue himself. Had I known, I would have made sure the meeting was limited to–”

“Less than two FUCKING hours?” Rhys snaps, and immediately regrets it: his own raised voice pounds on what remains of his abused eardrums following, indeed, two _fucking_ hours of being subjected to the only human known to rival the volume of a jet engine.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Drew looks down at his ECHO tablet. “Would you like to be left alone?”

“ _Please_.”

Drew makes himself scarce, closing the door without a sound. Rhys offers a silent thanks to whatever powers may be listening for the regular maintenance at the Atlas compound, because any extra sound right now, even the squeak of a poorly oiled ball-bearing inside the door mechanism, would push him dangerously close to flinging something at the door.

He can’t help but wonder if this is anything like Jack felt _every_ day when running Hyperion. That would explain so much.

Speaking of Jack. They’re supposed to be having a meeting re: clarifying the nebulous ‘deliverables’ of their cooperation, right about now. Half an hour ago, in fact, if Rhys was going to be punctual, but that ship has sailed.

Rhys groans, leaning his head back against the chair. How pissed _would_ Jack be if he were to reschedule? He just doesn’t have the… he can’t even find the word for what it is that he doesn’t have right now, but whatever he needs to deal with Jack’s shenanigans, he’s currently fresh out.

What are the chances that there might not _be_ any shenanigans today? That today will be an actual meeting between two parties looking for ways to work together? That just once, they will be two grown adults having a normal freaking conversa–

Rhys can’t even finish the thought for the laughter that explodes inside his already-exploding head. He’s not sure if it sounds like Jack, or Rhys himself, or both of them.

 _You know what_ , thinks Rhys, _Jack can be as pissed off as he wants to be._ He, Rhys, needs a break. Spending an evening talking business with Jack constitutes the exact opposite. So the man can wait. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to be.

(But maybe don’t say that last part out loud.)

Rhys walks to the VR room, sits down at the desk, and opens the chat window. He waits for the nausea to fade before he starts typing; each of the dozen steps required to make the journey here has made his head ring like an underwater bell.

Then something occurs to him. Would he still have a migraine inside the VR? The pains from inside the sim don’t seem to carry over into the real world: there was that time when Rhys botched some item spawn coordinates during an environment test, and got knocked off his feet by a window hurtling through the place at waist-height, and to add injury to injury, the _speed_ of the window may have been ballistic, but the glass wasn’t. Yet once he was back in his physical body, Rhys didn’t find any of the cuts and bruises on his skin. Would it work both ways, though? He must’ve gone into the VR with some pre-existing condition before, but for the life of him, he can’t remember if the pains or aches followed him inside.

Looks like it’s going to be a gamble. And sure, he could just look up the part of the readme on the correlation of physical sensations in the VR vs. the corporeal world, but a) he’s tweaked the simulation since the readme was written and b) reading anything right now might actually make him throw up.

 _Okay,_ thinks Rhys as he guides the neural interface to his temple. _It can’t be worse in there than out here._

The click of the spike sounds louder than usual. It echoes through Rhys's eye sockets, reverberates through his teeth, makes his jaw buzz like it's been electrified. He needs a moment to find his footing when the virtual world sets in around him, prepared to yank on the neural cable and get out at the first sign of the migraine symptoms getting worse (the mental image of his unattended body deciding to throw up and choke him to death on his own vomit is brief but evocative).

When, based on the first few seconds, it seems that the pain and nausea haven't followed Rhys into the simulation, he feels adventurous enough to open his eyes. The white background light, which, he knows, would've slashed across his eyes like a blade back in the real world, is perfectly inoffensive.

Looks like he made the right call after all, thinks Rhys as he looks around for Jack.

Jack is standing maybe ten feet away, in front of a huge screen that would be taking up most a wall if there were walls in here.

He turns around.

"Welcome back, kiddo."

There’s a smirk on Jack's face. And a gun in his hand. Not aimed at Rhys as such, but definitely pointed in his general direction.

Rhys freezes, his mind going a mile a minute. The injuries from inside the sim don't replicate themselves in the physical world, but the sensations are real; the _pain_ is real; does this mean that enough pain, just as from getting hit with a couple of bullets, could send his simulated self into shock? And if that happened, would his brain yank him back to reality, or keep him unconscious back there as well? For how long? Can he take that risk? Does he have an alternative? If he pulled the plug now, would he discorporate out of the sim before the enough bullets hit him?

Wait. _Wait._ How the _fuck_ would Jack get his hands on a gun? Even with the editing rights, there are hard limits on what he's allowed or not allowed to code in, and weapons are definitely _not_ on the list of authorized items. In fact, didn’t Jack just complain the other day that the sim's ‘parental controls’ wouldn't let him get a dart board?

Okay. So either Jack has hacked the simulation in some seriously critical ways, or he’s messing with Rhys. Either Jack’s actually trying to kill him, or this is a test.

And if Jack decided he wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t be standing there smirking. He would’ve pulled the trigger the moment Rhys appeared in the sim.

So Rhys doesn't step back or pull on the neural cable. He gives Jack a measured once-over as the man just stands there, his expression and lazy firing stance unchanged.

“What’re you got there, a Leverage?” Rhys nods towards the gun.

Jack chuckles. “Close. Vision.” 

He tosses the weapon to Rhys. Rhys catches it (though he wishes he managed to do it one-handed).

“Nice prop,” Rhys comments, and it’s not a lie. The gun feels reassuringly heavy in his hands. The level of detail is... exquisite. He wraps his fingers around the handle, eases a finger onto the trigger, feels it move so smoothly it might as well be an extension of his hand. Rhys lets out a small breath. “Damn... Scratch that. This is an _incredible_ prop.”

“I know, right.” Jack nods. “Took me a few tries to get it right, but hey, it's one of my own, gotta do the real thing justice. Now, pop quiz, Rhysie. Prop or not, have you got _any_ doubts you’re holding a Hyperion weapon?”

Rhys shakes his head. “None. I could tell it was a Hyperion the moment I saw it in your hand.”

“How’d you know I wasn’t holding, say, a Maliwan or a Torgue?”

“You’re Handsome Jack. You wouldn’t be caught dead slinging any gun that isn’t Hyperion”

“Good point, cupcake. And _no-one_ should be caught dead with a Torgue, am I right.” Jack rolls his eyes. “But say it wasn’t me. How _would_ you know this gun’s a Hyperion?”

Rhys turns the gun around in his hands, pops the magazine open, slides it back in, plays with the trigger again. 

“Well, there’s a hundred things, where do I even start? First off, one look is enough to know this gun was made in a high-tech facility, fully automated, not something thrown together by bandits. Can’t be a Vladof or a Tediore, the shape is all wrong. Too techy to be a Jakobs, too smooth for a Torgue, too spiky for a Maliwan…” Rhys looks up at Jack and sees him cocking an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for Rhys to take the next logical step. “So the thing you said you wanted to show me, it's going to be about branding, isn't it.”

“Well, it was gonna be. But hey, it sounds like you’ve already given it some thought, so why don’t we leave design and branding for your homework, and skip to the good stuff."

Rhys can’t help but roll his eyes. “You don’t need to give me _homework_ , Jack. And I haven't given it 'some thought', I’ve got half a dozen notebooks’ worth of designs, I've got the branding _down_ , okay? I can upload my designs into here so you can see for yourself.”

Jack takes a step back and crosses his arms. "Okay, so what's it gonna be? You wanna see what I've got to show you, or do you want me to _ooh_ and _ahh_ all over your weapon designs?"

"I mean–"

"No, seriously, do you want my help or not? ‘Cause on my end, it almost sounded like Handsome Jack just offered you a free lesson in product development, and you said ‘nah, thanks, I’m good’. Make up your damn mind, will ya, Rhys.”

Jack's tone is irate, his expression all but petulant. Is this what it's always going to be like, Rhys wonders. Everything a test. Fail, and be mocked. Pass, and be damned with faint praise. Go too long without impressing Jack, and he’ll get bored. Impress him too much or too often, and he’ll get bitchy.

Then again, most people in the weapons manufacturing world would give their right arm for a product development lecture from Jack. Which, Rhys supposes, makes him pretty much entitled to this one.

“You’re right.” Rhys raises his hands, palms out. “I just got overexcited. I mean, I'd love to show you the designs, but that's not why I'm here today."

"You sure about that?" Jack continues, arms still crossed. "'Cause if you're in the mood to sit around listening to me gush about your design and branding skills–"

"I'd be lying if I said that wouldn't do for me." It takes Rhys a moment to hear the words that just came out of mouth. He forces himself to keep looking Jack in the face even as the man's half-sneer, half-pout changes into a smile that's way too full of promise for comfort.

"Is that so," Jack murmurs. Rhys summons all of his willpower to continue.

"BUT today I'd much rather see what you've got to… show me?.." Fuck, shit, and also fuck again, these very same words didn't sound anywhere as suggestive when Jack said them earlier, and also, _how_ is it possible that with the exact same words in the picture, it's _Rhys_ who sounds more suggestive now?

"Yeah, I bet you would," Jack chuckles. (With the innuendo serve back on his side, some normality reasserts itself.) "But business before pleasure, right. Take a seat."

Jack snaps his fingers in the direction of the nearest chair that faces the screen. _Looks like it's going to be an_ actual _lecture, then,_ Rhys thinks as he walks to sit down. He hasn't been to one of Jack's business talks since his second year at Hyperion, when Helios was the venue for the 25th annual _Bang for Your Buck_ weapons conference, and Rhys had traded an unreasonable amount of past and future favors to get passes for himself and Vaughn. Even so, they were barely able to get seats for Jack's talk on the applications of slag (though after seeing the state of the first few rows after the practical demo, Rhys was happy about having sat all the way in the back).

And now, Rhys realizes, he has a front row seat. Scratch that, his is the o _nly_ seat. Somehow, it's taken him this long to realize that whatever presentation, lecture, demonstration is about to take place here, Jack has prepared specifically for him.

 _Just_ for him.

(That's doing it for you even more than the idea of Jack praising your designs, isn't it.)

(...shut up.)

( _Isn't. It._ )

Rhys takes a very slow, very quiet breath and drags his attention to– well, the back of Jack's head, really, as the man is facing away from him this very moment.

"Okay, let's do this," Jack announces. He brings his hands together with a loud clap and turns around, at the same time as the screen behind him lights up. (The bastard is still a showman through and through, thinks Rhys, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his face from spreading into a smile.)

The screen is showing a collection of semi-transparent company logos floating around. All the big guys, and the B-listers. Hyperion is still there, of course. But, Rhys notices, his heart doing a backflip, so is Atlas. And not the old logo, either. The current one, the one designed by Rhys. Did Jack actually pull it from the annual report to use in the presentation?.. (He has to bite down on his tongue this time, just to keep his expression even in the same ballpark as neutral.)

"Like I said," says Jack, "I was gonna talk visuals today. Because, visuals, cupcake, visuals are freaking _important_ , especially if you wanna go big. You say you wanna make more than chump change, you said drinking with Tediore ain't good enough for ya… Well, in that case, you can’t just serve some godforsaken hellholes where scavs scramble to get their hands on any piece of metal as long as it spits bullets. Nah, you wanna sell to markets where new gun designs are basically fashion, spring and fall collections, new trends and styles, all that crap. So yeah, you want your visuals to be on point. But you assure me that you've got that covered, you're telling me you know what you're talking about when it comes to _style_. And, based on what I can see…" Jack's eyes travel all the way from Rhys's face down to the tips of his shoes.

(There will be no blushing. None whatsoever, Rhys, you hear?)

"I'm gonna say…" Jack's gaze returns to Rhys's face, _at least_ just as slowly.

(Zero blushing. Absolute. Freaking. Zero.)

"Yeah, okay, I can believe that."

(Well. You tried.)

"But, tragically… you can’t _always_ coast on looks. Spoken as one good-looking guy to another." Jack punctuates the statement with a finger-gun. It's just as well Rhys is already blushing.

"Which brings us to the good stuff. Let's talk USP, kiddo. Style and flash aside, what's Atlas’s?” asks Jack.

Shit, thinks Rhys. _Shit_ . He knows this acronym, he _knows_ he knows it, but– 

"Come on, Rhysie. USP? Unique Selling Proposition? You know, kinda like, _high quality, low prices and no questions asked_ ,” Jack sing-songs in a halfway decent impression of a Marcus Munitions vending machine.

“Ah, yes. Duh.” Rhys snaps his fingers. Turns out that blushing earlier wasn't so bad after all: at least that was in response to a compliment, not due to being made to feel like a complete idiot. “I actually haven’t settled on one yet, because the old Atlas thing about ‘power of the gods’ feels a bit dated and douchey, and-”

“No-no-no-no.” Jack waves him into silence. “I’m not asking you for snappy slogans, pumpkin. I’m asking: what makes your product different from the rest? I’m shopping for a gun – why should I go with Atlas?”

“It’s an all-round good choice.”

“Bo-o-oring!”

“But it is! An all-round good choice, I mean!” Rhys protests. “Come _on_ , Jack, you’ve read the report, you know my product is legit. I’ve got two lines of pistols and one rifle line, and the stats are _solid_. Fire rate and accuracy, above average. Carry weight and recoil, below. What else do you wanna hear?”

“Oh, _I_ ’m not the one who wants things here, Rhysie. _You_ ’re the one who says solid isn’t good enough. So don’t give me solid, gimme special. What makes Atlas _special_?”

“Uh…”

“Come _on_ , gimme something. Pick a feature, any feature. Your rifle line, what’s good about it?”

“I, uh, high accuracy?”

“If I want accuracy, why Atlas and not Hyperion?”

“Because Hyperion’s… gone?” Rhys ventures. He half-expects Jack to blow up at this, but all he gets is a sneer.

“Oh, so you want Atlas to be the new Hyperion? Just slap on a new paintjob and call it a day?”

“No! Okay, how about one of the pistol lines? High fire rate, medium carry weight, decent price point?”

“So basically a Vladof.”

“Argh.” Rhys grabs his head. “Okay, okay. Gimme a second, gimme a _chance_ , I can get this, okay?"

"Okay." Jack rocks back and forth on his heels. "Go on. Sell me an Atlas."

Rhys lets go of his head, smoothed his hair back, takes a breath.

"Atlas A3," he says, pitching his voice low and smooth, as he would while recording a promo. "Heavier than your average pistol, but more than makes up for it in stopping power. Minimal recoil. Exceptional accuracy. One of a kind."

“Uh-huh…” Jack nods, his eyes darting towards the ceiling for a few seconds. He mutters under his breath, ticking things off on his fingers. 

Rhys allows himself a breath. Maybe, just maybe he finally stumbled across the right answer and– 

“Congratulations, Rhysie. The gun you described _is_ one of a kind."

Oh shit, oh _shit,_ no _way_ , yes, finally… 

"The only problem is, it's the Jakobs Longarm."

Fuck. Everything.

“You know what? I guess you're right, Jack!” Rhys launches himself off the chair and onto his feet, stomps off to the side past Jack, turns around a dozen furious steps later. “I guess there _isn’t_ anything special about Atlas, after all!”

“Hang on a–"

“I guess it _is_ all boring and played out, and every single thing I’ve come up with is just a lousy imitation of some product that's already out there, made by people who fucking _know_ what they’re doing!”

“Kiddo, just sit dow–"

“What, so you can tell me more what a freaking idiot I am, Jack? Well, save your digital breath, because most days, I feel like enough of an idiot already!”

“ _Rhys_.” Jack’s voice hits the kind of low and dangerous pitch that would normally stop Rhys in his tracks. This time, it only makes his blood boil, bubble over the knot in his throat and turn to bile in his mouth.

“Fuck OFF, Jack!”

Jack actually takes a step back. And stares.

“Come again, pumpkin?”

“Did I. Fucking. Stutter.” Rhys grits through his teeth. “Fuck. Off. I don’t need _you_ to tell me I’m freaking failing, okay? You think I don't know that already? _I thought_ that with all the old Atlas stuff, and all the stuff I basically _stole_ from Hyperion, I’d actually be able to make something... worthwhile, but here we go, you just confirmed what I’ve known all along. Atlas may be a name I chose to run with, but _my_ Atlas isn't the old Atlas. It's nothing special.” Rhys takes a breath. He knows the air in here isn't real, but that doesn't stop it from sticking in his throat on the way down. “I can’t _make_ it anything special. I don't have the faintest clue of what I'm doing. I'm not Montgomery Jakobs, I’m not whichever one of the Katagawas runs Maliwan now, and… I'm not _you_ , Jack. Sure as all hell I'm not. I just… I can’t fucking do this, can I.”

Rhys spins around, walks for a few more steps and stops, facing away from Jack. He lets his chin droop on his chest.

So much for that, then. If he can’t make Atlas into anything special, and it’s just become painfully obvious that he can’t, then that only leaves him with three options.

One, pack it up here and now. Sell off the assets, get a job somewhere, or have another go at the Vault hunting thing. Something he might actually not suck at.

Two, stay the course. Slow and steady and boring, and maybe, if he’s lucky, yeah, get invited for drinks with Tediore by the time he’s forty. 

Or three. Let Jack be in charge. Let him steer the whole ship. Let Jack turn Atlas into what _Jack_ thinks Atlas should be. Have the company be Jack’s in all but name, while he, Rhys, becomes a figurehead of a CEO. Just like he would’ve been at Hyperion. Because even if Jack hadn’t flipped on him like he had, surely he had no intention of _actually_ running the place _together_ with Rhys, like they were _equals_ or even _partners_.

Rhys feels his throat actually closing up. _Fuck_.

There are footsteps behind him. Then, a hand on his shoulder. Rhys doesn’t turn around. He’d rather die than look Jack in the face right now. Because he _will_ die if he looks Jack in the face right now.

(Here lies Rhys Strongfork, CEO of Atlas. Bawled like a baby in front of Handsome Jack. Died of shame immediately after.)

“You done?” asks Jack.

“Just about,” Rhys mutters.

“Wanna swing topside, get yourself a drink?” Jack says behind him. Rhys blinks furiously, still not turning around.

“I’m fine.”

“No, seriously, I don’t mind. Go do whatever you do to blow off steam. What’s your thing? Shoot someone, smash some shit? Or are you more of a... hands-on stress relief kinda guy, if you know what I mean? Go on, take a few minutes for yourself, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Well, at least he's no longer at the risk of crying. Mortified to death and beyond, sure. But no longer at the risk of crying.

(Here lies Rhys Strongfork, CEO of Atlas. Was instructed to go masturbate by Handsome Jack. Self-combusted immediately after.)

"I'm _fine._ Unless," Rhys takes a desperate shot in the general direction of humor, “this is your way of telling me to go fuck myself?”

“Hah, that's pretty good!" Jack barks out a laugh and lets go of his shoulder, just to slap it a moment later. "Fine, you wanna jump right back in, let’s do it. Just don’t say I didn’t offer you a breather."

Behind him, Rhys hears Jack walk back towards the screen.

"Now, sit your ass back down, cupcake, and fucking _listen_ , ‘mkay?”

* * *

This _freaking_ kid, Jack thinks, rolling his eyes far back enough to see his own brain. You try and be nice to him, right. Offer to play on easy for starters. But no, he turns it down, and then as soon you get down to brass tacks, it’s full-on freakout mode. _Waah, waah, I’m not you, Jack, maybe I can’t actually do this, Jack._ Ugh, gimme a freaking break.

And Jack offered to give _Rhys_ a break, too. He wasn’t kidding when he suggested they take a moment while the kid goes to get his head on straight. But _no_ , he decides he’s sticking around, insists he’s ready for round two. While still kinda shaking a bit.

Okay, fine, so maybe that means Rhysie’s not a _complete_ wimp. That’s maybe earned him a tiny bit of leeway. Not to say that Jack’s gonna go easy on him, but okay, he’ll dial it down a notch. Half a notch. Wouldn’t want the kid to _actually_ cry. That’d just be awkward for everyone.

“Okay,” says Jack as he watches Rhys return to his seat, the kid’s face still a vaguely radioactive pink. "Before we continue with the business side of things, a word of advice. Personal, like."

"Yes?"

"No matter how much you're freaking out, never let anyone hear you begging the universe for reassurance that you don't suck. Not a great shade on you. Not a great shade on _anyone_ , really."

"I wasn't– That wasn't what I–"

"Uh-huh, sure." Jack smirks. "But also, I'm feeling kinda generous right now. So, just this once, I can answer you on behalf of the universe. Just to make you feel better, you know?"

"Wait, what?.." Rhys blinks. Jack rolls his eyes.

"You think you're not cut out for this, you wanna hear some reassurance, some recognition for what you've already done, yadda, yadda. I can lay some of that on you if you like. Nothing good with a bit of praise to stroke the old ego."

Rhys meets his gaze for a few long seconds. Jack can _swear_ he can see the pupil of his natural eye growing wider, doesn't miss a momentary flash of teeth as the kid bites on his lip. Then, a blink, a breath, and it's gone. Rhys may be still blushing, but his voice is level.

"I'm good. Let's keep going."

"Sure, let's." Jack nods. He can't decide if he's kinda impressed 'cause the kid passed the test, or kinda disappointed 'cause things had the potential to get kinda hot, had he failed. "Anyway. So you got one thing right. There’s nothing special about your products right now. Bup-bup-bup–" Jack raises a finger before Rhys launches into another tirade. “That’s not a dig, that’s just having a clear idea of where you stand. And where you stand is trying to open a new chapter for Atlas. And here’s the thing, kid: the reason you’re having trouble coming up with ways to make _your_ Atlas special is ‘cause of the old Atlas. ‘Cause here’s a secret. There was nothing _special_ about their product, either.”

“Come _on_ , Jack.” Rhys frowns at him. “That’s just not fair. Atlas made some top-notch stuff. I know you’ve got history with them, what with all the rivalry–"

“And they bombed my old planet a bunch, too, but that's not it. I’m not saying their product was _bad_ , nah, farthest thing from. But it didn’t have that…” Jack snaps his fingers a few times, looking for the right word. “Pizazz? No, that’s not right, Jakobs is, like, _anti_ -pizazz, but one look at a Jakobs and you know exactly what you’re looking at. Help me, Rhysie, what’s that makes you, well, not you-you, a hypothetical you, different? Doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad, just plain different?”

“Identity?”

“Yes!” Jack points a finger at Rhys. “That’s the one, kiddo. Corporate... fucking... identity. And old Atlas didn’t really have one, ‘cause they weren’t really fucking corporate. They were military, like Dahl. Way back, when I was your age, hell, even younger, just slaving away in a cubicle at Hyperion – yeah, me in a freaking _cubicle_ , Rhysie, that’s a mental image for ya – anyway, at the time, Atlas and Dahl, they were kinda the main thing. You need a gun, you get a Dahl.” Jack turns around and pokes the Dahl logo on the glowing screen behind him, flicks it upwards so it sits at the top. 

“You need a gun _and_ you’ve got some cash to burn, you get an Atlas.” He does the same to the Atlas logo. 

“Oh, and Jakobs, of course. For those who wanna pretend they’re douchebag cowboys.” Another poke, another flick. Jack turns around to face Rhys again and jerks his thumb over the shoulder at the three logos dominating the top half of the screen. “And that was kinda it. Different times. Before things got _fun_. Now…” Jack makes a face. “I’m gonna need a shower after this, ‘cause I’m about to say nice things about Maliwan, and that always makes me feel dirty. But. Credit where due. Ugh, even that’s enough to make me sick. Hang on.” 

Jack recalls the code presets for drinks he currently has saved, makes some of alcohol-approximating-bourbon appear in a tumbler, snatches it from thin air and takes a sip. He still can’t decide which leaves a worse taste in his mouth, the fake drink or the compliments he’s about to give Maliwan.

“I still can’t get over how freaking… effortless you’re making it look,” Rhys mutters from his seat. “Coding things into here on the fly, I mean.”

Jack grins at him and raises the tumbler a fraction.

“It’s just what I do, kiddo. Anyway. Enter Maliwan.” Jack reaches behind him and flicks the Maliwan logo to the center of the screen. ”And I don’t mean that’s when it was founded, obviously they’ve been around, but it’s around this time that the military jam is getting less cool by the second, and things are getting more and more corporate, and guns aren’t just about shooting things now, style is becoming a thing, we’re talking _elemental damage_ , baby, and Maliwan’s got that in freaking spades. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re the biggest bunch of douchebags this side of Promethea, and don’t get me _started_ on their naming conventions, but _man_ , their elemental game has always been on freaking point. Ugh, what didn’t I do to try and headhunt some of their R&D bastards over to Hyperion, during my CEO days, gahd, the strings I pulled, and not to mention the triggers... Only ever got like, one guy, probably the dumbest one in the place. The rest, too freaking loyal. Anyway, where was I?”

“Maliwan appearing on the stage.”

“Yeah. And you’re probably wondering, what with all those–" Jack nods at the screen– "where’s Hyperion? Well, there’s a _reason_ I didn’t put it up there with the first three. ‘Cause, and here’s the fricking tragedy, Rhysie, back in the day, it’s not that people wouldn’t or didn’t buy Hyperion guns, ‘cause they sure did, but... it just wasn’t a company that’d pop into your head when you think ‘small arms’. Orbital defense systems? Sure. Freaking CL4P-TPs? First port of call. Small arms, though? Eh…” Jack rocks his palm from side to side. 

“Which was just… _ugh_ , I don’t even have the _words_ for it, ‘cause the tech was _there_ , gahd, the stabilizers that old bag Harren had prototyped, they were the sexiest fucking thing, and they’d been brought in early enough that Hyperion still had _time_ on their side, so if only that bunch of fricking losers calling themselves the board of directors had poured more funding into R&D to Keep Freaking Developing Them, Hyperion would’ve been running circles round Maliwan by the time those poncy pricks brought out their first Panoramic Torment or whatever their first big market splash was–"

Jack lets himself trail off and tries to go back far enough to find the start of his sentence. That’s just what happens when you don’t need to breathe, huh.

He cranes his head back and contemplates the simulation’s non-existent ceiling.

“I was going somewhere with this…”

“Maliwan,” Rhys contributes. Jack snaps his fingers again.

“Yes! Well, no. But. Hang on. Lemme actually think what I’m gonna say. Okay, here we go. Atlas and Dahl were old and military. Hyperion was not. But it was being run as if it was. Big and bloated from the get-go. A freaking whale when the water was getting full of sharks. And it’s not like it would’ve failed overnight, nah, it would’ve taken years, a slow, depressing-ass slide into obscurity, more depressing than Dahl or Atlas, even, ‘cause those guys had already had their heyday as superpowers, but Hyperion, Hyperion never would’ve _had_ that chance, it would’ve just ended its days as a freaking anachronism. So much potential tossed away ‘cause the old bastards in charge couldn’t see past their freaking noses. Anyway. Maliwan... Maliwan were the writing on the frigging wall, and I felt like I was the only one at Hyperion who could see it. Drove me mad at first. And then I thought – okay, Tassiter and his bunch clearly don’t give a shit about the company. So you know what? They don’t deserve to have it. And _Hyperion_ deserves someone who won't let it go to shit. The rest, as they say…” Jack spreads his arms, then gives Rhys double finger guns. “Is history.”

“Okay… So what's the lesson for my Atlas here?" asks Rhys. "I mean, any of the specific tactics you did to get Hyperion where it was, would they work for Atlas?” Rhys asks.

“Well… you’ve already done your share of dirty work to get on top, Rhysie. So we can skip right past the blackmail and murder part.” And the part with using the siren powers dropped on your head through some fucked-up twist of fate, let’s skip right past that too, Jack… “Let’s get back to where we started. Corporate identity.”

“And how my Atlas doesn’t have one,” Rhys mutters.

“Look, kid. _Old_ Atlas was a fucking powerhouse. The reason it didn’t survive is ‘cause no-one in there had the guts to do what they had to do to keep it relevant. Sure, I kinda trampled it into the dirt in the end, but it was a mercy kill by that point. So whatever you do with the new Atlas, with _your_ Atlas, you can’t just bring the old thing back. It’s not fit for this day and age. You try to recreate Atlas as it was, and you’ll end up with something that, at the very best, will be kinda like early Hyperion. Full of promise, but a dinosaur by design. And you’ll either watch it fade and ripped to shreds by the competition, or get stabbed in the back by some upstart who’s got a better idea of the market. So. Let’s get _you_ familiar with the market, shall we?”

Jack raises his hands like he’s about to surrender to someone holding him at gunpoint (heh, that'll be the day), then bounces his palms forward. The screen behind him flies right through him and settles in the air between him and Rhys. With another quick wave, Jack makes all the logos on the screen the same size again, and sends them to arrange themselves into a loose grid. Through the semi-transparent visual, he can see Rhys’s eyes widen at the sudden change in the presentation. The kid doesn’t comment on it, though. Well, the kid’s about to.

“C’mere.” Jack motions for Rhys to stand up and approach the screen. When he does, Jack gestures at the logos. “Pick a brand, any brand.”

Rhys reaches out, then pauses with his hand hovering in the air. “Is this a test of some sort? Are you gonna fail me I pick Atlas?”

Jack laughs. The kid's catching on, isn't he. “A test? Why, isn’t everything? But sure, pick Atlas if you like. Just go ahead and grab the logo, will ya.”

Rhys’s fingers close around the grey and silver Atlas logo, then pass right through. Jack watches his face, where the slight frown gets deeper as, Jack knows, Rhys’s fingers are currently giving him a totally mixed feedback of corporeal and incorporeal at the same time.

“What…” Rhys pulls his hand back till it leaves the screen, his fingers closed around an Atlas model A2 pistol. “How…”

“Hope _this_ prop’s also to your liking, Rhysie. Sorry if I got any details wrong, didn’t have as many references to work from.”

Rhys turns the A2 prop in his hands, the frown on his face relaxing into a fond smile as his fingers skirt the barrel, check the sights, pop the clip, play with the trigger. It may be the screen casting some extra light onto him right now, but Jack can swear Rhys’s entire face gets an extra glow about it as he examines the piece. (Jack kinda finds himself hoping he _did_ do a good job on this prop of all.)

“It’s beautiful,” Rhys mutters.

“You see, _that’s_ the kinda confidence you gotta have in your product.” Jack winks at Rhys as he looks up. Sure enough, two spots of pink appear on the kid’s cheekbones.

Rhys chuckles. “I meant the prop. You got it… just right.”

“Aw, thanks, pumpkin. But also, it’s actually a decent piece you’ve designed.” Jack watches the blush on Rhys’s face spread further. “Now, just stick it on the screen, don’t worry, it’ll stay there – yup, there you go – and pick another.”

This time, Rhys goes for Hyperion.

“Flatterer.” Jack chuckles as Rhys sets the second prop set on the screen (it _is_ a Leverage this time). “Keep going.”

“ _How_ am I doing this?” Rhys asks, reaching both hands into the screen now, and coming away with a gun in each: Dahl’s Anaconda in his left, Maliwan’s Phobia in his right. “I mean, I know it’s _you_ doing this, but how? I didn’t think this sim had the capacity to actually digistruct.”

“It doesn’t. Or technically, it does – coding anything into here _is_ kind of a digistruct if you think about it, like, as far as this level of reality is concerned? But anyway, this isn’t it. What this is, is an interactive catalogue with all the right pieces of code primed for activation, so instead of having a box full of props or coding them in on the fly – which, lemme tell you, even with my skills, would start a headache around gun number five or so... We can just do _this_.” Jack reaches into the Jakobs logo. His hand comes away holding the previously mentioned Longarm.

“Goddammit, Jack, this is...” Rhys shakes his head as the last few pistols get stuck into their places on the screen. “This sounds _obvious_ now that you’ve explained it, and yeah, _of course_ that’s the way to do something like this in here, but… yeah, I don’t know if I ever would’ve thought of this. Show-off.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, Handsome Jack, pleased to meet you. Anyway, here’s a slice of the market, just pistols for now. Now go through them and describe each brand’s _thing_. Three words of less. Skip Atlas for now.”

“Okay…” Rhys steps back and contemplates the lineup before him. “Skipping Atlas… Hyperion, accurate. Maliwan, elemental. Vladof, fast and cheap; that’s what she said? Jakobs, packs a punch. Tediore, boom. Torgue, boom but messy?.. Dahl, uh… help me with that one?”

“I mean, the real answer’s ‘old news’, but for the sake of the exercise, let’s go with ‘stability’. Not bad, kid, not bad at all.”

“So if this is the market, I've got to figure out where Atlas fits in. Find my niche, right?”

 _Goddammit, you were doing so well there for a moment, but here you go again with the fitting in, come on, stop trying to be boring..._

Jack bites back the answer before it leaves his mouth. Remember, Jack, dial it down. The kid _is_ doing well, no need to crush him. He’s not dumb. Give him a chance to figure it out.

“Well, you _could_ look for a niche,” Jack says instead. “Or… Bear with me a second.”

Jack sweeps his hand across the line of gun props hanging on the screen, turning them invisible. A box with each weapon’s stats pops up above it. With another flick of the wrist, the collection gets jumbled.

“Point to the Tediore piece, will ya, Rhysie.”

Rhys picks a box without a moment’s hesitation, and the right gun reappears on the screen.

“Now the Maliwan?”

“Yeah, I can see where you’re going with this…” Rhys chuckles, correctly indicating the Phobia. “Don’t ask me to pick out the Atlas, okay? ‘Cause if I try that and get the Jakobs instead, I swear I’m going to lose my mind again. There’s Hyperion...” He points to another set of stats on the screen and makes the Leverage appear. “What you’re saying is, all this time I’ve _already_ been trying to fit into the market and find the right niche. I may have actually fitted in a bit too well, so now my product risks being unrecognizable.”

 _The-e-ere we go, Rhysie._ Jack nods at him, but says nothing, lets the kid continue.

“So if I want my Atlas to be the big time, I should be doing the opposite of fitting in. I’m gonna make it stand out.”

_Yes, yes, now you’re getting it. Go on, kid, take the next step, do you see it, do you freaking see it?_

“And I shouldn’t be looking for a niche, either.” The smile on Rhys’s face tells Jack that he does, in fact, freaking see it. “I’m going to _make_ my own.”

“Yes!” Jack claps his hands together, makes two finger guns and sweeps the entire screen to the side. “And now for the fun part, pumpkin.” Jack puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Now you get to figure out _what_ it’s gonna be. And here’s the best thing about creating your own niche in the market: it can be whatever the hell you want!

"So think big, kiddo! Think weird! And _nothing’s_ too weird in small arms now, trust me on this one. I mean, seriously, take Tediore’s explode-on-reload thing. It’s freaking bullshit, it’s a stupid-ass gimmick, and it’s also real freaking dangerous, by the way, seriously, once you know how they do it, you’ll never wanna be _near_ a Tediore gun again. But none of that matters, ‘cause they made it work, and they convinced enough people to buy it. 

"So, yeah. Don’t just think outside the box, kid. Set the freaking box on fire. Gimme weird, gimme crazy, gimme something that _really_ shouldn’t work – and there’s a good chance that I– that _we_ can make that happen.”

With the screen out of the way, there’s no mistaking the glow that returns to Rhys’s face, his eyes and smile lighting up and trying to outshine one another.

“Oh, I’ve _got_ ideas, Jack. And some weird ones, too. _Now_ do you wanna see some of my designs?”

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “Bring it on, Atlas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The secret behind the Tediore explode-on-reload technology is a nod to [Only Fools by ineffmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18095681/chapters/42775379), which, in addition to being a wonderful fic, contains some delightful weapons nerdery!


	10. Proof of Concept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10, for real this time.
> 
> * * *
> 
> _HJack69: your tracking bullets idea  
>  HJack69: i’ve got a way to make it work  
> HJack69: you’re gonna love it  
> HJack69: it’s viable  
> HJack69: cost-effective  
> HJack69: and fucking elegant, if i say so myself  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to some more hand-wavy Borderlands science!

Ever since work at Atlas began in earnest, Rhys hasn’t had the luxury of actually taking days off, but purely for the sake of his sanity, he’s trained himself into the habit of largely unstructured working weekends. Meaning, unless he had to travel somewhere or receive visitors, he’d allow himself to wake up without an alarm, and do the day’s work from his apartment.

Not this time, however. So far this weekend, Rhys has spent ninety percent of his awake time in the VR, with the remaining ten percent devoted to the basic maintenance of his physical form, stuck in front of the computer in ‘Jack’s office’ with a neural cable in its temple.

Returning into the sim after another spell of maintenance featuring a stretch and a sandwich, Rhys wonders what the hell he’s going to find this time. Jack has taken it upon himself to change the layout of their brainstorming space every time Rhys logged out and back in. His designs for the area had begun as fairly tame, with a conference table followed by a gallery of floating screens and white boards, and then escalated towards the bizarre, with a collection of hammocks (which Rhys kind of enjoyed), a swimming pool (which Rhys didn’t go into, but couldn’t find a professional reason to object to) and a ball pit (which Rhys, much to Jack’s chagrin, had to ban via admin access after the tenth ball thrown at his head for no particular reason but with alarming precision).

This time, it looks like Jack has turned things back down a notch, going for the relatively vanilla option of half a dozen beanbags (the yellow and black ones are self-explanatory, but Rhys wonders if the red and grey ones are supposed to be an olive branch following the ball pit incident). 

“Okay,” says Rhys, flinging himself onto a grey beanbag. “Next idea.”

“Hit me.”

“You know those shields that adapt to elemental damage? Could we do, like anti-that? Make a bullet act as a probe, so it hits the shield, registers what element it’s currently stacked against–”

“–and transmits the data back to you before it’s destroyed, uh huh…” Jack takes a sip from his coffee mug. “Okay, but unless you’re real good at switching guns mid-fight, you’ll need to start with a multi-element piece. So, two elements minimum, plus make it smart enough to flip between them based on the call-back from the bullet-probe… I’m not saying that _couldn’t_ work, but…”

“Hang on, but the enemy’s shield is gonna keep adapting, right? Which means we don’t even need the probe: we could just keep rotating through the elements? Fire, cryo, electricity…”

 _"Explosive,"_ Jack adds with a weird smirk. Rhys watches him for a second to see if there’s going to be follow-up, but Jack just chuckles while he examines his fingernails.

“Anyway, yes. So how about a multi-elemental gun that can fire in single-element mode, or rotate through the options?”

“It can be done, but not with your current assets.” Jack snorts. “That’s what she said, right? But seriously, there’s a reason elemental weapons are at a higher price point, kid: the fixed costs to set up production are a real bitch. And because each element behaves differently, you basically need a separate manufacturing process for each, _especially_ if you wanna stick multiple modes in one gun. And don’t forget that if you’re coming out with a new elemental gimmick, you’re challenging the reigning champion.”

“Maliwan,” groans Rhys. Jack nods and makes a face.

“Maliwan. So if your new piece flops, your production lines are a giant-ass upfront investment you can’t get back. In summary, yeah, this could be hot, but you’re not ready. Which is also–”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to belabor the point. Which is what _he_ said, by the way. Anyway…” Rhys folds his hands behind his head and stares off into the white void where the ceiling should be. “So here’s a thing I’ve been wondering. How come there aren’t guns that use multiple elements at once? I mean, sure, some combos are pointless, like fire and cryo, or cryo and corrosion, but how about, I dunno, shock and slag?”

“Oh, I’ve played with that one back in the day. Turns out, if you electrify slag before it’s had a chance to stick to something, there’s some weird chemical reaction that strips away most of its adhesive properties. Something to do with molecular polarity.”

“What about slag and fire? Does that stick?”

“Ah-ha-ha, does it just.” Jack laughs. “A bit too well, unfortunately. It’s kinda like making a universal solvent – great idea, but where the hell do you store it, eh? Anyway, the whole ‘slag on fire’ thing, Hyperion had to mothball that after the test at Turnpike Hill.”

“Where the hell is Turnpike Hill?”

“Exactly.” Jack tosses a coffee mug into the air and finger-guns it when it reaches the apex of its trajectory. The mug disappears without a trace. He walks to the counter with a coffee machine on it and presses some buttons. “Still none for you?”

“Nah. No offense, but the coffee here is still really shitty.”

“It’s your VR, kiddo, so the only one you’re insulting is yourself.” Jack saunters towards a bright yellow beanbag and lands dramatically, but without spilling a single drop from the newly-full mug. (He’s got to be cheating somehow, thinks Rhys.) “Moving on?”

“Sure. Say, let’s circle back to shields for a second.”

“Why’re you so stuck on shields all of a sudden, pumpkin?”

“I like… not dying? No offense.”

“Some taken.” Jack rolls his eyes and crosses his legs, ankle over knee.

 _"And,"_ Rhys continues, “they aren’t really my wheelhouse, so I just don’t have the time and resources to dig through competitor intel if I get some weird idea for a shield, and wanna check if it’s something that’s been tried before, you know? So even if I don’t end up making any new Atlas shields, I figured I’d bounce some ideas off you?”

“I mean… You realize Hyperion was no Pangolin or Anshin, right? Still, you’re right, I know more than you do. Bounce away.”

“Can we make a shield that would adapt based on the wearer’s vitals? Get stronger when you’re weaker, or, say, route more protective capacity to a part of you that’s been wounded?”

“Theore-e-e-tically,” Jack drawls. “The first one, anyway. _Maybe._ If you’ve got e-tech and know what you’re doing. The second…” He works his jaw. “Yeah, the trouble there isn’t making it happen, it’s making it happen fast enough that it matters, ‘cause when you’ve got bullets flying, every millisecond counts for your response time… Yeah, don’t quote me on that, ‘cause, like I said, ain’t a shield guy, either, but my gut’s telling me that tech’s still a decade away. Half a decade if someone finds some relevant Eridian crap. Speaking of, got anything left from that Vault loot that you could put to good use? Invention-wise?”

Jack sounds perfectly casual, still lounging on the beanbag, coffee mug in hand. But Rhys feels a hot band of anxiety tighten around his ribs while an alarm blares in his mind: _Caution. CAUTION._

“Nothing in this area,” says Rhys. It’s not a lie.

“I’m just saying,” Jack continues, tracing small arcs in the air with the toe of his sneaker, “even on the more civilized planets, the study of Eridian artefacts is a pretty damn narrow field. Here on Pandora, there are maybe two people, three people max, with enough knowledge worth a damn. And the most handsome one of them is right here in this room. So if you got any weird Eridian crap that you don’t know what to do with, well…”

“I’ll keep your offer under advisement,” says Rhys, desperately shooting for humor with a faux-official tone. It seems to work, because Jack snorts out a laugh.

“And my resume on file, gotcha. Got more shield questions to bounce?”

“Sure. Uh.” Rhys swallows, quick and silent as he can, trying to steer his brain out of the skid of a conversation almost gone sideways. Should he have straight-up lied and told Jack he had nothing left of the Vault stuff? Maybe. Is he a good enough liar to have lied convincingly when put on the spot like that? Not necessarily. How bad is it that now Jack knows he’s got _some_ unspecified Vault tech somewhere, on a scale of whatever else Jack already knows? Next question. Oh shit, yes, next question. “So you remember Athena?”

“Yeah, we’ve met. You’ve met her too, kid, not exactly someone you forget in a hurry.”

“So, her shield… I mean, the literal, physical shield, not the digital one.”

“The Aspis, yeah. Bit of a relic, but even I can’t deny it’s got some style. What ‘bout it?”

“That’s Atlas tech, right? Do you think if I got my hands on the original schematics, it’d be something…” Rhys trails off, because Jack has sat up on his beanbag. He’s leaning forward, full-on staring at Rhys, his face equal parts amusement and incredulity. “What?”

“No, no, don’t mind me, kiddo, keep talking, I wanna hear that plan you’ve got involving Athena and Atlas marketing plans…” Jack says, laughter bleeding in around the edges of his voice. This really is more than enough feedback for Rhys to drop the subject entirely, and it’s not like he’s dying to be made fun of when he can avoid it… then again, it’s better that Jack focuses on whatever he found stupid about his plan, instead of zeroing in on the fact that Rhys might have access to Atlas schematics that pre-date the facility they’re in.

“Well, I _thought_ that the Aspis might be something we could bring back as a product–”

“Uh-huh…”

“–maybe with some updates to improve on the original specs while keeping the same core design–”

“Yep, yep…”

“– maybe even offer Athena a complimentary upgrade on her current gear, in exchange for a bit of endorsement–”

“ENDORSEMENT!” Jack falls back onto the beanbag, howling with laughter. “Endorse– oh my GOD–” He smacks his fist down onto his thigh a few times. 

(Rhys is kinda tempted to join the game: since Jack seems to have the leg area covered, maybe he’d appreciate a punch to his freaking _dick_ next.)

(But look on the bright side: he’s forgotten all about the Vault stuff, at least for now.)

So Rhys just sits there, patiently, waiting for Jack to get the laughing fit out of his system, a weary look ready and waiting when Jack finally sits up and wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Ah-ha-hah, thanks for that, kid, that was… Well, I’d say ‘better than sex’, but this consciousness doesn’t have its own basis for comparison yet, so– Hang on.” Jack screws up his face for a second. “Ah shit, if you get into technicalities, this version of me is a virgin, isn’t it? Oh, man… Anyway!” The grin returns to his face. “Let’s talk about how you’re the luckiest guy alive.”

“You want to elaborate, Jack? Because none of this–” Rhys gestures in the vague Jackward direction– “is making me feel particularly lucky right now. Or particularly sane, for that matter.”

“Got nothing on the sanity front, kid, but the luck part, yeah. You are so incredibly, unbelievably lucky that I’d get freaking _bored_ here without you. ‘Cause if it weren’t the case, well… I’d be talking up your idea of marketing Athena’s shield so hard right now, you’d forget about every other project you’ve got. You’d get those upgrades in, you’d get those promos out… and then within 24 hours of your advertising campaign going live, you and the entirety of this facility would get slaughtered in your sleep. And I’d have an Old Haven story that’d be almost as hilarious as my New Haven story.”

“What are you saying?”

“Are you forgetting that Athena frigging _loathes_ Atlas, kiddo? That whole thing with killing her sister ‘cause of them, or something? Ring any bells?"

"Uh..."

"Come on, remember that guy at the place with the things?"

“You may need to give me a bit more than that.” Rhys runs his hand through his hair, stifling a sigh. Maybe letting Jack go on the ‘let’s make fun of Rhysie’ tangent wasn’t such a great idea after all. At least not towards the end of the second consecutive day of his delightful company.

"Seriously?" Jack gives him an incredulous frown. "The biodome? You were there with your little bandit friends, the one with the hat and the one you had the hots for? And there was the old guy who was, like, the last Atlas employee on Pandora? Where the hell were you, staring at some more mushrooms or– ahhh!” Jack slaps his forehead. “Yeah, I keep forgetting we were, uh, sharing at the time, that'd be why you don't remember. Anywho, I sicced dear ol' Athena on the guy, and boy, was she happy to see him. Did she ever kill him?.."

"I... I don't know." Rhys looks down at his hands, simply to look somewhere other than at Jack's face right now. (What other things from the Pandora trip doesn't he remember, he wonders. Some middle-of-the-night stroll he went on while he was supposed to be asleep? Someone else he set up to get killed without ever knowing?)

"My point is, Athena plus Atlas equals some top-notch carnage, Rhysie. I’m not saying it’s a _sure_ thing that she’ll come swinging her sword at your pretty neck once she finds out you brought Atlas back to life, but… Even if you decide you're not gonna sign your own death sentence with a freaking flourish by trying to use her image to sell Atlas products, I still recommend you put her down in your security database as _stabbing risk, colon, high_.”

“Got it…” Rhys gets to his feet. “I’m going to go and do that right now.”

“Good call. See you in ten?”

“Actually, I think I’m ready to call it a night.” Rhys rubs his eyes, stretches his shoulders, covers up a yawn that he doesn’t even need to fake. “We’ve been at this basically the entire weekend, it’s getting late, and I’m pretty sure that with this last one, you’ve filled the daily ‘make Rhys feel like an idiot’ quota by about one-hundred and fifty percent. Let’s pick this up tomorrow. Six pm?”

“Aw, come on, it was only your last idea that was actually, like, _lethally_ bad. The rest, though, there’s some real potential there.”

“Come on, Jack.” Rhys forces a tired smile. “I know we joked about how you complimenting my designs would do it for me, but this wasn’t even a little convincing.”

“You’re right.” Jack sits further up, leans forward, elbows on knees. His eyes are trained on Rhys’s face. “I can do better.” 

All traces of earlier humor are suddenly gone from Jack’s voice; it’s low and dark and smooth, and the sound of it sinks into Rhys’s chest and pulls on him with slow but inexorable gravity. 

(In his mind’s eye, Rhys watches himself walk over to Jack, slide down to the floor next to him, lean his back against the soft yellow beanbag, rest his head against the side of Jack’s knee–)

“A lot better.”

(–and just sit there, with Jack’s fingers tangling in Rhys’s hair, as Jack keeps talking to him in that voice, _in this exact voice,_ telling Rhys he’s got vision and ambition, and the talent and skill to pursue them, and many, _many_ more things that Rhys is too ashamed to admit he’d want to hear from someone like Jack, things he’d give anything, short of his actual life and Atlas, to hear from _actually_ Jack…)

“How ‘bout it, cupcake?..”

Rhys blinks, shaking off the brief fever dream, wills some strength back into his knees, and whatever’s left, into his voice.

“Another offer to keep under advisement.” He reaches to pull out the neural cable from his temple port before Jack has the chance to say anything else. “‘Night, Jack.”

* * *

Jack watches Rhys discorporate out of the simulation, waits a few more seconds to make sure no residual input makes its way across the cybernetic link, then wrenches himself to his feet with a groan.

_Good freaking job, Jack._

And you two were doing so well, too, with the whole brainstorming thing. It was actually fun! Right up to the point where you freaking destroyed the kid about the Athena thing, and then basically came on to him to make him stay. Amateur hour. _Desperate_ amateur hour.

(Oh yeah, and reminding him of the time when you wandered around in his body? That could only have made him so much more comfortable, so-o-o much more likely to keep hanging out... Desperate amateur _idiot_ hour.)

He’s not allowed to do this anymore, Jack tells himself. No flirting with Rhys to get his way. ‘Cause even if it worked– okay, let’s face it, if Jack put his mind to it, it would work like a freaking dream. But. Rhys is gonna get suspicious, and knowing Rhys, it will be sooner rather than later, and then any approximation of trust on Rhys’s part (which even on the best of days barely hits ‘lack of constant paranoia’) will be gone to square negative one hundred. ‘Cause the only way this will go down is, Jack’s tried to _manipulate_ him again, and through such _despicable_ means too, waah, waah…

Whether or not there’s any _actual_ attraction behind the flirting will be, of course, irrelevant. Why let a little thing like facts get in the way of a good old-fashioned wallow, right?

Ah, shit, thinks Jack. This means he can’t flirt with Rhys to get his way _or for any other reason._ Even in moments when Jack might have no motivation more complicated than ‘Rhys is pretty’, no agenda more nefarious than ‘to get laid’, Rhys’s paranoia will tell him a whole different story, and Jack’s not gonna look good in it.

_Wonder whose fault that is, Jack._

This freaking sucks. Sure, Jack’s impromptu come-on a few minutes ago _might_ have been, mostly, an attempt to minimize the number of hours he’s stuck alone in here... But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy the mental image of Rhys sitting or lying down next to him, maybe with Jack’s arm around him, smiling and blushing and (eventually, but before long) biting his lip as Jack spins some smooth nonsense about how great Rhysie is. And based on the way Rhys’s eyes glazed over for a moment before he pulled himself out of the simulation, Jack wasn’t the only one with mental images here.

But that’s not happening. And that freaking sucks.

(And knowing whose fault it is doesn’t make it suck any less, _okay?_ )

Okay, Jack, enough with the piney-whiny bullshit. Just pick an option: one, go jerk it out of your system and get back to work in ten minutes or less; or two, act your fucking age (whatever that even is now), shove this teenage-worthy nonsense out the metaphorical airlock and get to work _now._

You know what, thinks Jack. It doesn’t even have to be metaphorical. 

He summons a giant glass partition to block off a chunk of the simulated space, makes a rough approximation of a space view show on the other side, then, with a snap of his fingers, causes the beanbags to huddle into a smaller space as he constructs an airlock around them (perhaps because there’s no _actual_ air in the simulation, the program doesn’t consider airlocks of all things to be a dangerous item; the beanbags, nevertheless, manage to look kinda scared).

Instead of messing with fake gravity, Jack slips an extra few lines into the beanbags’ code that will turn them weightless once they’re on the other side of the glass. With one push of the button, the airlock makes a decent show of being vented, and Jack watches the colorful blobs tumble away and, eventually out of sight.

It’s almost satisfying. No substitute for the real thing, of course, but that’s just par for the course, and a good reminder of what Jack is _supposed_ to be focusing on, instead of soft brown eyes and pretty smiles.

Jack gets rid of the airlock facsimile, but leaves the space view intact. Then he brings down a screen from somewhere on high and scans the transcript of the last two days’ worth of brainstorming; the automated notation routine he’d slipped into it has helpfully organized ideas into headings, complete with the main discussion bullet points and conclusions on each idea’s viability. With a flick of his finger, Jack sends the most promising ideas to sit at the top of the list.

 _ > invisible grenades _ _  
_ _ >> basically short-term, disposable cloaking _ _  
_ _ >> promising; concern re price point _

Jack snorts at the side note in the transcript: _What about invisible guns? – WHY, Rhys? – Think about it: to anyone watching, it’d just look like you finger-gunned them, and they died!_

 _ > shield: return to sender _ _  
_ _ >> track incoming bullets’ trajectory, smart ricochet _ _  
_ _ >>>some kinda radar to enable targeting multiple hostiles? _ _  
_ _ >> workable; some heavy lifting for AI, tho, esp for multi targeting _

He could make this work, thinks Jack. Actual ricochet is nothing new, even though no-one’s made it work properly yet; hang on, wasn’t there that one Vladof piece that was almost decent? Rhys could get his hands on that, reverse engineer it, while Jack works on the AI targeting part of the equation… yeah, they could make this work.

Wasn’t there one more thing he kinda liked, though?.. Oh yeah.

 _ > aim assist, smart targeting _ _  
_ _ >> one tracker shot, next x bullets go to marked target _ _  
_ _ >> good shit, srsly _ _  
_ _ >> how to make it work, tho _ _  
_ _ >>> homing bullets? makes ammo expensive af _ _  
_ _ >>> gun does the tracking? same AI heavy lifting problem _

Unlike the first two, this entry doesn’t feature even a semi-conclusive ‘this is maybe how we do it’ point, but something’s making Jack keep this idea close to the top of the list. He _knows_ it hasn’t been done before, not like this; but he also knows there’s _something_ relevant to this, something real and possible and existent, maybe even something he’s actually worked on before. 

Jack paces back and forth, clenching his hands into fists and opening them again. Tracking, improved aim, sights? No, wrong direction. Improved aim, reverse recoil, stabilizers… Getting colder again. 

The fake space view offers no answers, not even after Jack stares at it until his eyes hurt. He walks past the window, dragging his hand along the glass, leaving a squeaky trail of finger marks. Come _on_ . Strip it down to basics. Smart targeting. What _is_ targeting? Intersection of target and payload. How do you intersect the two? Traditionally, move payload towards target. (Send bullet at bandit.) Conditions allowing, facilitate movement of target towards payload? (Try and move bandit closer to bullet?)

Jack’s on the right track, _come on, man, you know this, you KNOW this,_ but the answer keeps dancing just outside his reach, slipping through his fingers like he’s trying to catch a moonbeam, a garbled signal worrying at the corners of his mind, the mental equivalent of a missing tooth, that annoying sucking gap that drives you nuts and that you keep poking with your tongue till it bleeds– 

_Wait. Go back. Just there._

Jack stops, closes his eyes, holds his optional breath, turns off the unnecessary heartbeat. There was something about the body-related metaphor that tripped a switch in his mind, but if he’s to catch it, he needs to be _just_ mind for a few moments.

_Go back. Circle it. Find it._

Mouth, teeth, tongue. No, that’s nothing.

Missing tooth. Missing _something._ Gap.

Gap. Hole. Pull. Gravity.

_Singularity._

Jack lets his eyes fly open, drawing a full lungful of simulated air as his heart launches into a drumbeat that might as well be a victory march.

Singu-fucking-larity. The grenade mod. Marketed as creating a ‘gravitational singularity’, except that was a straight-up lie, ‘cause messing with Actual Freaking Gravity is both fucking difficult and fucking dangerous, and why would you do that when you can _fake_ a gravitational singularity with the help of some of the lesser-known weird-ass intermolecular properties of eridium, where, if you know what you’re doing, you can create the mother of all ‘like attracts like’ effects? Meaning, all you need to do is set off a quick, preliminary, invisible to the naked eye, explosion that showers the area you want to implode with a fine mist of appropriately prepared eridium matter, trigger the larger piece inside the grenade to attract everything that’s been misted by it, and then… whoosh-BOOM.

Guess who came up with _that,_ kiddos. Yeah. There’s a reason singularity grenades were a Hyperion exclusive. No-one could work eridium like Jack did.

A thought makes Jack’s blood freeze in his veins. Oh god. _Oh god_ . Please, for the love of everything that’s shiny, let this _not_ be a patent Rhys had sold to Maliwan without mentioning it in the annual report.

Jack shakes his head to dislodge the terrifying mental image. Okay. Assuming there’s _some_ mercy in this cold and uncaring universe and the secret behind the fake singularity is still locked in the Hyperion files… Then… Yeah. They’d need to get their hands on some eridium, equip an appropriate lab, he’d need to run a whole bunch of extra simulations to get the effects right, but this is doable, and so, _so_ much more easily than trying to make low-cost homing bullets or stuffing a gun so full of AI it would start demanding human rights.

Yeah. Jack grins as he stares off into the endless star-studded tapestry of space in front of him. Yeah, he can make this work. And this is gonna be frigging beautiful. Did he ever mention he’s a freaking genius?

* * *

_HJack69: hey_

_HJack69: i know you said six pm, but see if you can get off early_

_Atlas1: You okay? Everything alright in there?_

_HJack69: yeah, why?_

_Atlas1: You had almost five minutes to make a joke about ‘getting off early’, but I’m not seeing any._

_HJack69: heh_

_HJack69: can’t believe i missed that_

_HJack69: guess i’m too pumped about the other thing_

_HJack69: the other thing being the tracking bullets idea_

_Atlas1: Tell me more._

_HJack69: i’ve got a way to make it work_

_Atlas1: !!!_

_HJack69: you’re gonna love it_

_HJack69: it’s viable_

_HJack69: cost-effective_

_HJack69: and fucking elegant, if i say so myself_

_Atlas1: Tell. Me. Everything._

_HJack69: it’ll be my freaking pleasure, cupcake_

_HJack69: right after we’ve discussed my compensation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst, yes, I know that singularity grenades te-e-echnically already existed during TPS, when eiridum wasn't a thing yet, but shhhhh. I was really excited when I found out they were a Hyperion exclusive, and I've got a whole story of how Jack came up with that tech (to be revealed later), so don't ruin it for me, m'kay, pumpkins?


	11. The Hard Sell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you weren’t gonna give me the hard sell?” 
> 
> “Oh, those were just the facts, kiddo. If you want the sell, though… For as long as our deal is in effect, you’re gonna have Handsome Goddamn Jack as your right-hand man. Doesn’t get much harder than that, if you ask me.”

This is supposed to be a negotiation, Rhys tells himself. A meeting between potential partners. A meeting between _peers_.

Which means he must present a calm, collected front. Be cool. And even if he can’t _be_ cool– _of course he can’t be cool; how the fuck is he supposed to be cool after what Jack just–_

Shut up.

And if even he can’t _be_ cool, he should be _acting_ cool. Not quite as cool as Jack, whose lounging posture suggests that it’s only the lack of an actual negotiation table that’s preventing him from sitting with his feet on the negotiation table. But calm. Collected. Professional.

Which means Rhys needs to stop holding on to the armrests of his chair like he’s expecting to get ejected the moment he lets go; relax his jaw before he gives himself a headache through sheer teeth-grinding; and above all, stop staring at Jack like he’s trying to will him out of existence. ( _Especially since that’s kind of the opposite of what we’re trying to do here, right, kiddo?)_

Just review the terms, Rhys. Calmly. As you and Jack had agreed before, the purpose of his meeting was to clarify the deliverables of your potential partnership. And here are the proposed deliverables.

Jack makes the “smart targeting” project possible, helps Atlas put the new product line on the market and provides all necessary advice and support along the way. And all he asks in return– (Rhys feels his fingers grip the armrests of the chair again. _Calmly,_ Rhys.)

And all he asks in return is…

“A body.”

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “Biological. Human. And just my own. So like I said, if you’re worried I’m trying to hitch another ride in your head, or something, this ain’t it.”

“Yes. You were very clear on that.” 

(He was. That doesn’t change the fact that Rhys can’t stop himself glancing down at the armrests of this, perfectly innocuous, chair just to be sure a pair of restraints hasn’t appeared to lock down his wrists.)

Rhys pulls his gaze back to Jack’s face, and gets stuck staring at him again. Not in the earlier, half-paralyzed, half-hypnotized, all-panic, deer-in-the- headlights-watching-a-car-crash way, but in something that’s almost fascination. Because Jack’s usual easy charm, that veneer of effortless charisma that makes you want to trust him even when you have every reason not to, it’s still there, but it’s so much more transparent than usual. Almost as if he _wants_ Rhys to see through it, _wants_ to show him what’s underneath.

Yearning. Hunger. Want. _Need_. To be real again. To live again.

Jack shouldn’t be doing this, thinks Rhys. Showing his hand like this, letting on how badly he wants what he’s asking for. Then again, wouldn’t it just come across as fake, desperate and plain stupid, to ask for something like this and pretend it’s not a big deal, to pretend that both of them _don’t_ have everything at stake here?

(Unless showing his hand like this is supposed to convince Rhys that _this time_ , Jack’s being real and honest, while some larger play is ongoing behind it all, on a scale so inconceivable that Rhys would have no way of seeing the trap until it’s sprung and shut around him.)

There’s still time to back out, thinks Rhys. Don’t make any promises. Don’t cut any deals. Preserve the status quo for a while longer. Give yourself more time to make sure Jack _ic_ on the level, or as much as he’s capable of being.

“Hey,” says Jack after Rhys is silent for a while. “You know you can take your time, right? Think it over, come back with an answer when ready? No need to sit here freaking out for the next two days.”

“I’m not freaking out,” says Rhys, because sometimes the obvious lie is your only option. “Although I’ll be honest, I was kind of expecting you’d start giving me the hard sell by now.”

“Oh, I would, but how’d that even work? Talk up my skills to you? You already know who you’re dealing with. Put a timer on the offer? Sure, I could do that, but what do I do once it runs out? I don’t exactly have other candidates lining up.” Jack chuckles, almost... softly. “It is what it is, Rhys. You know what I want. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got a good idea of what you’re after, too.”

This is too much, thinks Rhys. Too much, too far. Forgoing the hard sell in favor of honesty, vulnerability, almost… intimacy? That can only be an act. Just another trick in the playbook.

(And fuck everything if it isn’t working, if it isn’t pulling on some heartstrings Rhys was sure he’d severed and tied off to keep firmly out of Jack’s reach, if it isn’t sparking a bloom of warmth in his chest that glows brighter at the very idea of being able to help Jack: not for Rhys’s own gain and not even for Jack’s praise and approval, but just… _for Jack_.)

He should take Jack up on his offer. The latest offer, that is: to take his time and think it over, calmly, back in the physical world, away from Jack and even from the chat. Get his head back on straight, walk himself through the decision, weigh all the risks– 

“So how would that even work? Getting you a body?” Rhys hears himself ask, and he doesn’t miss the extra spark lighting up behind Jack’s eyes or the way his smile sharpens for a fleeting second, and there might as well be a flashing neon sign over Jack’s head saying ‘gotcha’, but… 

It doesn’t matter, does it? It is what it is. They both know what they want. And they both only have each other to help them get there.

“Well, that’ll be for you to figure out.” Jack shrugs. “I don’t have anything off-the-shelf, if that’s what you’re wondering. You think I’d have asked you to mess around with Helios back there if I had a spare Handsome Jack meatsuit lying around?”

“What makes you think it’s even possible, then? If Hyperion in its heyday, with all its resources, and with you in charge, couldn’t pull it off–”

“Bup-bup-bup.” Jack raises a finger. “Appreciate the flattery, Rhysie, but I think you’re missing the point here. If I _knew_ it was possible, I’d also know how to do it, and I’d give you the exact instructions. But if your job was to just follow orders like some dumb hired Vault Hunter, the reward at the end would be a pile of money and a couple of shiny toys. That, and my undying gratitude in the form of making you the only Vault Hunter I _wouldn’t_ shoot in the face the moment I was back in Corporeal Land. But that’s not the deal on the table, is it? What I’m doing for you is bringing to market a revolutionary, never-seen-before breakthrough in the world of small arms, something that can become the cornerstone of your new Atlas, and carve a whole niche in the market just for you.”

“I thought you weren’t gonna give me the hard sell?” Rhys chuckles, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless as the images of Atlas’s future swarm in his mind, each one more glorious than the other, are making him feel.

“Oh, those were just the facts, kiddo. If you want the sell, though…” Jack grins. “For as long as our deal is in effect, you’re gonna have Handsome Goddamn Jack as your right-hand man. Doesn’t get much harder than that, if you ask me.”

Rhys rolls his eyes dutifully, in the hopes that making a show of being quietly exasperated by Jack’s never-ending innuendo will keep away the encroaching blush. It’s not the innuendo itself that’s the problem: it’s a series of reminders that it triggers. (One: physical arousal _is_ a feature in here; two: ill-timed stress-induced physical arousal is _also_ a feature; three: the current set of preferences for his projection / avatar make it trickier to keep such issues... discreet, compared to back in the physical world.)

“Okay…” Rhys gets to his feet before the situation gets worse, steers himself to face three-quarters away from Jack, and sets off on a slow pacing route that, he hopes, will be enough to send his simulated brain the right message and _chill the fuck out_. “I see your point. What you’re asking for _might_ be impossible, we don’t know that. But what you’re offering _would_ be impossible without you.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“Uh-huh…” Rhys hums as he takes a few slow, measured steps and makes a good show of being lost in thought for a few more seconds, before he considers it safe to turn around and face Jack again. “What if it actually can’t be done, though? And save the ‘bup-bup-bup’ this time: I’m not being defeatist here. I just want to know what’s going to happen if we reach the end of our cooperation, and despite every bit of effort we both put in, there still isn’t a body for you. What then?”

“Look…” Jack pulls himself to his feet also, circles the chair and leans on the back. “It’s not like at eleven fifty-nine of day three-hundred-and-sixty-five I’m gonna–”

“Whoa, whoa.” Rhys stops and gives Jack an incredulous frown. “A _year_? You’re giving me _one year_ to figure out a way to, umm, let’s see, bring the dead back to life??”

“Ugh, don’t be so _melodramatic_ , cupcake.” Jack throws his head back and contemplates the lack of the ceiling. “You’ve already done the hard part. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“No.” Rhys shakes his head. “I mean, yes, you are, but no. One year is a non-starter. Even with Atlas as it is, I’d need to put everything on hold and throw myself into this research, to even have the slimmest hope of… No.”

“Fine.” Jack straightens out and crosses his arms. “Eighteen months. And I’ll see if the smart targeting trick can’t be applied to big guns, too.”

“Four years,” counters Rhys. “And I’ll see if I can get you a body that will look like you.”

“That’s your idea of sweetening the deal? ‘Looking like me’ is supposed to be a core freaking feature! Two years. And I’ll write your CEO addresses for the annual reports.”

“Three and a half. And I’ll give you ECHOnet browsing rights.”

“You see, now, _that’s_ how you sweeten a deal. Hmm...” Jack looks him up and down with an expression that Rhys wouldn't know where to start parsing even if he wanted to. “Three years. Copyrights to everything I come up with in that time. And I’ll advise you on the _real_ value of any old Hyperion patents you’ll wanna sell, so you don’t get screwed by Maliwan again.”

“Dea–” Rhys begins, then stops himself just in time, _barely_ in time. _What_ is happening right now? Two minutes ago, he was wondering if what Jack’s asking is even possible, and now he came this close to actually committing to a timeframe?

Fuck, thinks Rhys. If they do go ahead with the deal, these three years had better include some negotiation lessons, because _damn_ , that was smooth.

“Hmm?” Jack watches him, hand hovering halfway towards a handshake.

“Speaking purely hypothetically here…” says Rhys.

“Of course.”

“We shake on it. We work on our respective ends of the deal, for three years. And I still can’t get you a body. _Then_ what?”

“It depends. If you’ve got something in the works, but the time is running out, well… I’m not the most patient man you’ll ever meet, Rhysie, but I’m not stupid, either.” Jack chuckles. “I’m not gonna forfeit the rest of my life, the chance to _have_ the rest of my life, ‘cause I’m too bored to wait a few extra months. I’m sure we can negotiate an extension.”

“But what if…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know…” Jack runs his hand through his hair. “What if time’s up and, despite our best efforts, the corporeality shuttle isn’t any closer to launch. What then, you ask? Surely Jack won’t be happy to have worked for free? Surely he’ll be wanting some kind of consolation prize?”

Rhys says nothing. He watches as Jack takes his turn at pacing the length of the work space, from the pair of armchairs on one end to a desk crowded by floating screens on the other. He covers the distance a few times, with his hands clasped behind his back, his face almost blank as he stares off into some future that – which is almost certainly a blessing – only he can see.

After a few laps around the area, Jack stops. He folds his hands behind his head this time and stands with his back to Rhys, so motionless and quiet that Rhys finds himself stilling his own breath so as not to break the silence.

“The company,” says Jack, still facing away. He lets his hands fall by his sides, then places them on his hips. “Atlas.”

“Yeah?” prompts Rhys. 

“That’s my forfeit price.” Jack turns around, and it’s all Rhys can do to hold his ground, to stop himself shrinking backwards at the sheer sight of Jack’s face: every line sharpened, mouth set into a straight, hard line, eyes nailing Rhys to the spot. “If I can’t have a body to live in, I’ll spend my digital lifespan running the company I helped build.”

“That’s…” Rhys swallows, forcing himself to hold Jack’s stare. “That’s one hell of a consolation prize. I don’t think so.”

“You got a counter-offer?”

Rhys breathes out, feeling his mind spin at some crazy RPM without gaining any purchase, skidding like a wheel caught in a ditch. In lieu of a body, _what_ can he offer Jack? Money he can’t do anything with, a fancy title no-one but Rhys will know about, a more comfortable _prison_? The classic question goes, _what do you get a man who’s got everything_? Well, what do you offer a man who’s got nothing, but only wants the one thing?

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “That's what I thought you'd say.”

“I can’t give you Atlas, Jack…” Even the sound of that idea drives a cold spike between Rhys’s ribs, pierces a hole in both his lungs before it reaches his heart. “If I do, then I’ll be the one having worked for free the whole time.”

“Wrong. You’ll still have everything I’ll have taught you.” Jack walks to close the distance between them, stops a few feet away. A smile touches his lips, but not his eyes. “Tell you what... I’ll even let you have the patents for the smart targeting tech. It’s only fair I should come up with some new tricks for my turn at the wheel, right?”

“No.” Rhys grits his teeth. “This _isn’t_ fair.”

“Oh, Rhysie, Rhysie.” Jack leans forward a fraction, the emerald and sapphire of his two-tone gaze hard enough to cut diamond. “ _None_ of this is.”

* * *

_Not fair?_ thinks Jack as he stares down Rhys. (The kid’s doing pretty well, considering: Jack can see his frantic heartbeat, a vein fluttering under the pale skin of his neck, but his face is set, his eyes meeting Jack’s head-on.)

Of _course_ none of this is fucking fair. Jack asking for Rhys’s company as payment for failure to perform a potentially impossible feat? Not fair. Jack asking for said potentially impossible feat in exchange for something he already _knows_ is possible? Not fair. Jack asking for anything at all in exchange for his work while he knows he’d do it for free, just to stop himself getting bored in here? Not fair, either.

Yeah. None of this is even remotely fair. But when you get down to it, the least fair thing about this is Jack asking Rhys for Anything. At. All.

‘Cause after what he’s done to Rhys (a broken promise and at least two attempted murders come to mind), the kid owes him nothing. You wanna talk fair? In a fair world, Jack should be dead right now. As he should’ve been for the last five hundred and nine days.

(Okay, _okay_ , so the whole ‘imprisonment in a shapeless void’ thing might’ve been a bit much… So how about some time, let’s call it a year, in this afterlife with all the amenities, how’s that for a recompense for disproportionate punishment? And after that, buh-bye, Jack. _That_ would be fair.)

(And if Rhys has a problem with straight-up killing him, which, let’s face it, of course he does, otherwise Jack wouldn’t be here _now_ , then, well, just leave the simulation running, and put a door in here. A one-way exit. To be used at Jack’s discretion, for when (and of course it’s _when_ , not _if_ ) he finally gets bored even of this, much nicer, afterlife. _That_ ’d be, like, at least one hundred and twenty percent fair.)

_Yeah, kid. You got it right so far. This isn’t fair. Are you gonna keep going, though? Press this point? Call me on my bullshit? Remind me that I’m not in a position to make demands? Give me your terms and tell me to take them or leave them?_

Jack keeps the staring match going, doesn’t let any of his thoughts show on his face, but there’s a weird thrill swirling through his mind, the exhilaration at the idea of going toe to toe with a worthy adversary. A non-insignificant, borderline self-destructive part of him _wants_ Rhys to step up, and push back, and _challenge,_ and see that the deal Jack is offering him is ten kinds of shit, and cut through the mind game that this negotiation has devolved into, ‘cause sure, Jack’s damn good at those, but Rhys is the one holding all the freaking cards here, _come the fuck on, kid, see what’s really going on here, don’t let me do this to you, fight back, you’ve proven before that you’ve got what it takes..._

(What’s _wrong_ with you, Jack? Do you _want_ to lose?)

(Well, no. Jack doesn’t want to lose. But he doesn’t want to win too easily, either. Which is kinda weird, ‘cause he’s never had a problem with that before.)

“Okay,” says Jack after a few more moments of Rhys doing nothing to break the stalemate. “You don’t wanna gamble your company? I respect that. So how about we up the stakes? Make it five years instead of three. But once _that_ time is up, I get a body, one way or another, and I won’t care what it looks like. If you catch my drift.”

All color drains from Rhys’s face like the VR’s saturation slider has been dragged all the way to the left. He steps, practically staggers, backwards.

“You– you can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I? This _is_ a matter of life and death, after all.”

“No,” exhales Rhys. “ _No_. How can you even–”

“Let me remind you what’s _really_ going on here, Rhysie.” Jack closes the gap between them in one step, leans in until their faces are close enough he could count every eyelash around Rhys’s brown and gold eyes. “You’re making deals with the devil. And I’ve got no use for your soul.”

There’s silence, broken only by a few quiet breaths. Then…

“Three years.” The words tumble from Rhys’s lips, so much paler than their usual pink. “Invention, copyright, support as agreed. And I get you a body.”

“And if you don’t?..” prompts Jack.

A sigh. A swallow.

“Then you get Atlas.”

(Well. At least he fought back. Once he was up against the wall almost literally. He gave _some,_ but he didn't give _up._ That’s something, right?)

(Why are you even thinking about this, Jack? You got the terms you wanted, and some. You won this one, man. That’s all that freaking matters. What’s your problem?)

Yeah, thinks Jack as he scans Rhys’s face, where pallor is giving way to blotches of nervous pink. He won this one. That’s all that matters right now.

He takes a step back and extends a hand.

“Deal.”


	12. Down Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _> input calculation parameters  
> >proposed element name (leave blank to use previous input)  
> >>  
> >specify properties file:  
> >>Fd123.dhxl  
> >>calculating feasibility of simulated digistruction  
> …  
> >calculation complete  
> >feasibility of simulated digistruction of fakeridium (Fd): 3.2%  
> >begin iteration 124? (y/n)  
> >>fuck you  
> >begin iteration 124? (y/n)  
> >>y  
> _
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone actually working in science and tech for the Physics Gone Wild aspects of some of this chapter.
> 
> And a huge Thank You to [vargrimar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar) for allowing me to bring _True House-Spouses of Dionysius_ from their brilliant fic [Misplaced Devotion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663791) over to this AU. (Also, go read their fics, they're the best thing ever.)
> 
> * * *

Rhys spends the next week staunchly avoiding the VR. Or, if he’s going to be honest with himself (for a change), he spends that week avoiding _Jack_.

Not that it’s hard to avoid someone who’s literally stuck inside a computer. If Rhys wanted to never see Jack again, it’d be as simple as sealing the door to the room the VR rig is in. 

(Or he could switch the computer off. Take out the hard drive. Throw it into the nearest garbage disposal, or blast it with an EMP, or– No, Rhys isn’t _actually_ going to do any of that. But every now and again, some part of his mind throws these scenarios at him, maybe just to remind him that, in spite of all evidence and most of the events so far, Rhys is _actually_ the one in control. Jack can’t do anything outside of the boundaries that Rhys, and Rhys alone, determines. Jack has _no power_ over Rhys.) 

(...Well. Two out of three isn’t bad.) 

Rhys doesn’t do anything as drastic as actually cutting off his own access to the VR room, but he does keep his interaction with Jack limited to the chat, and just plain limited. He falls into the habit of checking messages on Jack’s computer twice a day, usually before and after work. The first time he leaves the computer unattended for this long, he expects to come back and find the chat window overflowing with random nonsense or, at the very least, a repetition of his name and every conceivable nickname at thirty-second intervals, a.k.a. Jack’s usual way of getting his attention.

That’s not the case, though. The last messages on the screen are quick and to the point.

_HJack69: hey_

_HJack69: i know i can’t get weapons in here_

_HJack69: but i’m gonna need some kinda ballistics lab for your smart targeting research_

_HJack69: see what you can do?_

Rhys contemplates the messages (timestamped roughly twelve hours ago) and shoots back a quick ‘sure, gimme a day’. The answer comes through a few seconds later.

_HJack69: k_

This continues for the rest of the week. All of Jack’s messages are requests for various research materials, be they specs for Atlas and Hyperion products, or increasingly complex lab equipment. (Rhys double-checks every requested feature before he grants Jack authorization to implement it; try as he might, he can’t seem to find anything underhanded, anything Jack could conceivably use to affect things outside of his virtual environment.)

At first, this new chat etiquette genuinely surprises Rhys. A few days in, his surprise morphs into relief. By the weekend, it starts to grate on him a bit. Especially because, thanks to all the extra free time _not_ spent in the VR or running back and forth to the chat window, Rhys barrels through his week’s agenda fast enough to actually _have_ a weekend. Well, a Sunday, but that’s still a whole day more than he’d usually get to himself.

Between sleeping late, wandering around his apartment in pyjamas, and an episode of _True House-Spouses of Dionysius_ with breakfast turning into a marathon, more than half of the Sunday is gone before Rhys knows it. He showers and puts some actual clothes on (comfortable slacks and a hoodie, Atlas grey with red logos), for no other reason than to feel more like a human being than a jacket potato. The same motivation sends him out the door. Might as well stretch his legs.

Unlike back on Helios, where parts of the station were specifically designed to feel, for want of a better word, civilian (the cafes, the shops, the spa Rhys had afforded a grand total of once), the Atlas compound in Old Haven has never pretended to be anything more than its intended purpose as a research facility. Even in the wing converted into residential space, the metal interiors still give off a thoroughly military-industrial vibe. Nothing makes it more obvious than the small atrium that Rhys had tried to turn into an indoor commons: though well-lit and clean, it still looks less like a public space for hanging out, and more like someone had discarded a shipment of benches, vending machines, and miscellaneous potted plant life.

It still feels like home, though, thinks Rhys. Maybe not to the two dozen people living here. But to Rhys, the compound in Old Haven will forever be that one place you always return to, even after moving on to bigger things and grander places. (Bigger things than the Old Haven compound. Grander places than Pandora. Both starting to look like much more of a real possibility; in Jack, he has part of the solution in place now, or a hope of one, anyway; the rest is up to him to figure out.)

Rhys spends some time lost in thought, sat on a metal bench with his legs stretched out and hands wrapped around the cup of toffee latte from one of the vending machines. A small group of people wave at him from across the ‘uncommons’ as they walk past: Rhys recognizes Sandy from Accounting, and Becks and Audrey from Engineering, all three dressed for outside. (He recalls overhearing a snippet of conversation in the staff kitchen about a new bar that’s opened up somewhere in the informal sprawl of shops around the facility; he listened just for long enough to find out if it was in any way affiliated with Moxxi’s business interests; that didn’t seem to be the case.)

Maybe he should go out, too, thinks Rhys. He hasn’t seen Vaughn and Yvette in forever. He’s not going anywhere near the wreck of Helios any time soon, of course, but he can send a shuttle to pick them up, zoom them over to Old Haven, and they can check out that new bar together, or go some place else. A night on the town, any town, the three of them. Just like old times.

Rhys smiles, pulling Vaughn’s number on his HUD.

“Call–”

It occurs to him halfway through the command. He hasn’t just seen them in forever. He hasn’t seen them since that business with the Vault of the Traveler, and his brief disappearance in the aftermath. There’ll be catching up. There’ll be questions. Questions he’ll need to dodge, or answer with lies, or… 

_“So I brought Handsome Jack back – yeah, I’ve had the old ECHO eye the whole time, didn’t I tell you – and now we’re kinda… working together, I guess? Well, he’s making a new weapon prototype for me, and I’m figuring out how to get him back into a corporeal body. Let me get the next round?”_

Well, there goes that plan, thinks Rhys, blinking the HUD away. He still wants a drink, though.

An hour later, he’s halfway down a bottle of red wine, pacing up and down in front of a holo screen that now takes up one of the walls in his apartment. Rhys keeps the wine glass in his left hand while gesturing with his cyber palm to make notes appear on the screen, which is split into different sections united under a headline specifically chosen to be nebulous to anyone who isn’t Rhys: _Project Corporeality_.

Because if you can’t spend Sunday evening drinking with your buddies, you might as well do the next best thing: stay in and drink by yourself while brainstorming ideas for your latest research challenge. Namely, ways to procure a human body suitable for transplanting the AI of a… dangerous, brilliant, sarcastic, charismatic, _dangerous_ man that Rhys really shouldn’t have anything to do with, or be working with, _or_ be thinking about while drunk on a Sunday evening, because the thinking may have started out in a semi-professional context, but Rhys would be lying to himself if he denied that the level of professionalism has been taking a dip in strong inverse correlation to the amount of wine consumed.

Dangerous, brilliant, (stupidly hot– _shut up, wine, nobody asked you_ ), sarcastic, charismatic _bastard_ that Rhys hasn’t spoken to, like, _properly_ spoken to, in over a week now, and it’s not like he _misses_ not getting a moment’s peace between Jack’s messages, or the sheer crystallized stress that suffuses every moment of their face-to-face interactions, but– Okay, fine, the chat, in its previous form, would make him laugh _sometimes_. Like after a particularly mind-shredding meeting or an ECHO call that tried to drain his very soul through the speaker: but at those times, Rhys was so fried he’d laugh at anything, even Jack’s stupid jokes or stories with far, _far_ too much grievous bodily harm for any halfway decent person to find funny. 

And _maybe_ some of their face time inside the VR was kind of fun, like brainstorming the new weapon ideas, or that presentation Jack had put together for him.

_Yeah,_ thinks Rhys as he leans against the back of the couch he doesn’t remember sitting down on. _He did do that_. _That was… almost, kinda sweet, wasn’t it?_

Rhys pulls his socked feet onto the couch, wraps a thick grey blanket around himself, and stares ahead: half at the actual screen in his apartment, half at the mental image of Jack in front of his own screen, grinning and gesturing and making things appear out of simulated thin air, and talking in not so much circles as spirals, rambling speeches orbiting his point but still bringing new information on every new spin.

_He didn’t do it to be_ sweet _, you realize. He did it to impress you. Because you’ve got something he wants._

That doesn’t change the facts. Fact one, Jack’s lecture on product development was ten kinds of fun and twenty kinds of useful. Fact two, this works both ways: Jack, in turn, also has something that Rhys wants– 

_Oh, I’ll say_.

–in terms of their cooperation, dammit. Rhys puts the wine glass down. Maybe it’s time he switched to water. Actual Jack’s bad innuendos and borderline flirting are bad enough. He doesn’t need those from the voice in his head, too, especially when said voice (which _still_ sounds far too much like Jack for comfort) gets bold enough to interrupt his own thoughts.

It’s not just the wine, though, Rhys realizes with terrifying clarity. He’s been hearing this kind of commentary in his head for most of this week, getting louder by the day, getting progressively worse as time went on… the longer he went without speaking to Jack for real.

Rhys groans and buries himself fully under the blanket. So that’s how it is, then. Either he keeps dealing with Jack for real, or he has to contend with Jack’s-but-not-really voice at the back of his own mind, which is so much _worse_ , somehow: a poorly made copy, a distorted reflection, a knife-edge grin that’s just the knife, a venom that doesn’t even try for sweetness. It’s as if even after Rhys had pulled out his cybernetics, the worst, the absolute worst parts of Jack managed to linger in his brain, somehow, slithered to the back of his mind, to lie there in wait, always poised for an opportunity to land a blow when it will hurt the most.

_Or maybe it has to do something with your self-esteem being a negative value. That’s why even your_ hero’s _voice in your head has no choice but to be a dick to you._

...case in point.

_Or maybe–_

(the voice dips lower, darker and, inexplicably for a sound that’s already inside his head, draws _closer_ , somehow)

_–maybe that’s just what gets you off, kiddo._

Rhys wrestles the blanket off of himself and throws it on the floor. Not. Fucking. True. Yes, he’ll be the first to admit that when it comes to Jack, his wires aren’t as much crossed as tangled as a pile of headphones at the bottom of a bag, but that… no.

He stomps over to the kitchen sink, pours himself a glass of water, drinks it down in a few angry breaths. Maybe he _should_ go and see Jack. But not because the voices in his head are being mean to him, and certainly not because he’s missed talking to the guy. 

(Yes, yes, he just admitted he misses talking to Jack; are you happy now, you, you… fucking undiagnosed lingering echo from the most mentally _and_ physically traumatic experience in Rhys’s life?)

He should go and see Jack because they’re partners, and they’re working together, and _Jack_ is clearly hard at work on the research he promised, so maybe it’s time Rhys gave a presentation of his own and talked through all the different options for delivering on his end of the deal.

Yeah.

Rhys turns back to face the holo screen scattered with his disjointed notes. Okay, so maybe he needs to organize his thoughts a bit, first. But he doesn’t have to worry about trying to be super sleek or going for high production value: as far as experience in bringing AIs back to life goes, he and Jack are pretty much on the same level.

So all he needs to do is shape his ideas into something clear and concise. A couple of options with pros and cons, some basic feasibility analysis, maybe a ballpark cost estimate.

The first draft shouldn’t take him more than a few hours.

* * *

Roughly seventy-two hours after deciding that the first draft of the presentation on _Project Corporeality_ shouldn’t take him more than a few hours, Rhys is forced to admit that the first draft might, in fact, take longer than his original estimate. Unless he wants to show Jack a collection of bullet points mostly filled with question marks, he needs some real, practical, occasionally field-based research. Which means that the updated timeline is no longer looking at hours or even days. “ _Weeks”_ is sounding more and more likely.

And it’s not the delay itself that’s the annoying part: you don’t work in tech without learning about Hofstadter’s law the hard way. It’s the fact that in his mind, Rhys has already earmarked the presentation for his next face-to-face meeting with Jack. And now it looks like until Jack hits some research milestone worthy of inviting him over, Rhys simply doesn’t have a valid– oh, call it what it is, Rhys, an _excuse_ to see him.

(He _could_ , of course, request a progress update, but that runs certain risks, and Rhys isn’t sure which he’d have more trouble navigating: being accused of attempting to micromanage Handsome Jack, or being asked for a status report in return.)

Two more days pass without updates. On the third day, Rhys sets up an additional holo screen at his desk and pairs it with the monitor of Jack’s computer via a signal splitter. There still aren’t any new messages, but at least he manages to get some work done.

He’s left it too long, thinks Rhys on the eleventh day after his last visit to the VR and the fourth day with no messages from Jack. (The environment logs confirm he’s safe and sound inside the program; Rhys has taken to checking the video feed to confirm, once per day, no more than three seconds at a time; every brief visual he’s gotten of Jack showed him fully engrossed in something happening on one of the many screens floating around him.) 

He should’ve gone back in earlier, or messaged Jack for reasons other to just answer his questions, shouldn’t have let this weird silence settle between them after their negotiation. Sure, it _was_ a bit of a disaster, but the fact that they did reach a deal in the end was proof that it didn't go anywhere as poorly as it could've. And this isn't going to be the last time things get strained between them: that's just the price of mixing business and personal, even when dealing with _normal_ people who don't have their fucked-up history. So if Rhys can't handle the way Jack can flip on a dime between friendly, overbearing, plain threatening and then friendly again, or the way he– in short, if he can't handle working with Jack, he never should've started this.

Bottom line, he shouldn't have left the weirdness settle and take root and grow. He should've gone to see Jack earlier. He should've messaged.

(Well, yes, Jack _also_ could’ve messaged or invited him in. He must have his own reasons not to. They may be complicated. They may also be very simple. As simple as, he’s never been interested in anything but the deal in the first place, and now that the deal’s been made… yeah. It’s not like that would be inconsistent.)

On the twelfth day after his last visit to the VR and the fifth day of radio silence, Rhys gets a call from Maliwan, an ECHO mail from Vladof, and an idea.

* * *

Okay, kids, so here’s the trouble with eridium. (Heh, _The Trouble with Eridium_ , that’d make a nice title for a Pandora history book.) 

The trouble with eridium is that it shouldn’t fucking exist. 

At least not according to the standard human periodic table, even with all the upgrades and updates it’s gone through in the past few centuries. ‘Cause eridium’s not a super-heavy, so you can’t just try and tack it on at the end; you can’t squeeze it onto the little extra shelf that’s been added on the right for the new super-noble gases acting super weird; and it doesn’t even belong in the still semi-theoretical space earmarked for elements with a negative atomic number (pencilled in for once someone finally manage to isolate some without blowing up the lab and themselves in the process).

Now, if you _wanted_ to stick eridium on the periodic table, well, first you’d need to imagine the table in a 3D space, then make your way to the metalloid ladder, locate silicon and gallium, draw a line going upwards from each at a roughly 45-degree angle, take the point at the hypothetical intersection of these lines, and nudge it in the general direction of bismuth to account for the slight radioactivity and the crystalline structure. Got all that? Good. Now go and pour yourself a double of the strongest booze you can get your hands on ‘cause the human brain was not meant to try and conceive of this caliber of sheer fuckery. Oh, and whatever you do, do NOT try to calculate that sucker’s atomic number, not unless you’ve got some LSD on hand.

Point is, eridium is many things (including a semiconductor: before Jack discovered some of its weirder properties, he thought eridium was gonna make him the founder of a whole new era of computing, because under the right conditions, that purple alien crap can do everything that silicon does, but _better_ ; hmm, maybe something to revisit down the line). And it’s not just a figure of speech: eridium actually _is_ many things at once, and it can be even more things if you know how to work it. But one thing it’s not, and can never be (because see also: shit that’s too fucked up for the human brain) is a feature in a computer simulation designed to reproduce reasonable facsimiles of stuff made of regular, known, boring-ass materials. 

As far as the human laws of physics, chemistry and common sense are concerned, eridium shouldn’t fucking exist. Therefore, in the Atlas simulator, it fucking doesn’t. Not even when you’ve got some sweet-ass lab tech, including a digistructor that's _supposed_ to be capable of producing any element known to man, but in reality, is a lazy piece of shit that would rather default to the lowest common denominator and ignore the fact that _this_ man knows of at least one extra element.

But say you could get your hands on a small sample of eridium, just enough for the digistructor’s scanner to learn its pattern and replicate it? Sure, back in the real world, you couldn’t make something outta nothing, which meant that whenever you were putting on the market any product with eridium in it (whether actual e-tech or something that used it low-key style, like those singularity grenades), you had to check with the distributor to make sure they had sufficient quantity and quality of the stuff loaded into the vending machine, too. But in here, _everything_ is made from nothing, so it’s just a question of getting the right blueprint, the scaffolding to wrap the code around. Even a few atoms of eridium should do the trick.

And say you knew for a fact that back in the real world, when you still had a body, there was eridium shrapnel embedded in your skull, just another memento from the time when a psychotic Siren punched an alien artifact through your face. So then the question becomes, _how_ faithful is your current digital projection to your dearly deceased physical form? Did the eridium shrapnel carry over into here? And if it did, how are you feeling about self-administered robo-assisted cranial surgery, Jack?

(Jack’s willing to admit he’s not _thrilled_ by the prospect, but the idea isn’t a total non-starter. He hadn’t gotten where he was in life – when he still had a life – by being easily grossed out, and it’s not like he can die in here. As for the pain, surely there’s a setting for that somewhere in here? Probably not a great idea to switch the pain off completely, or god knows what he’ll end up slicing off, but turning it down to a manageable level, something that wouldn’t make him glitch out and respawn, that’s gotta do the trick.)

Ultimately, the matter of surgery is moot, ‘cause every scanner available in the simulator gives Jack the same answer: a complete lack of any simulated foreign matter in his simulated skull. The only non-organic objects showing up on the scan results are the clasps of his mask.

(Which adds a whole new dimension to the question of what Jack’s face currently looks like under there. This still isn’t the time to be dealing with that, though.)

Okay, but say you could get specs for the mentioned singularity grenades, from among the many patents lifted from the Hyperion database by a certain enterprising upstart, and upload them into the simulator – yes, yes, Jack knows about the ‘no weapons’ rule, and there’s no need to flout it, _just strip the things of the payload, Rhys, it’s fine_ , the only thing Jack cares about is the eridium-enabled fake singularity effect. So then the question becomes, will the grenades reproduced in here have the concealed eridium core like their real-world counterparts, _or_ will they be duds that simply emulate the desired effect, turning the singularity trick into a _double_ fake?

The latter, Jack is forced to conclude after several tests. Of fucking course it’ll be the latter, ‘cause a guy just can’t catch a freaking break, can he? A credible simulation of an alien material with frequently internally inconsistent, occasionally reality-defying properties, is that really too much to ask?

The conclusion seems to be, this software simply doesn’t have a point of reference for eridium, hence its failure to simulate the shrapnel in Jack’s head or the eridium core of the grenades. Which means, if Jack wants the digistructor to actually live up to its promise (“every element known to man,” _my ass_ ), he needs to _teach_ it. Assuming the dumb-ass thing is even teachable? 

Jack codes in a second digistructor, makes it forget what hydrogen is, then manually inputs the specs for a new element and makes it generate a bunch; the element scanner confirms that, aside from the vastly superior name, the novel Handsome Hydrogen is in every way identical to the boring original.

Awesome. So now that you have proof that the digistructor’s database is expandable, all you need to do is give it the right specs for the unholy lovechild of silicon, gallium and bismuth’s drug-fueled threesome on the dance floor of a disco club built on top of an unshielded nuclear waste disposal facility.

Okay, let’s be realistic here, Jack. This is gonna take a few iterations.

* * *

_> input calculation parameters  
>proposed element name (leave blank to use previous input)  
>>  
>specify properties file:  
>>Fd123.dhxl  
>>calculating feasibility of simulated digistruction  
…  
>calculation complete  
>feasibility of simulated digistruction of fakeridium (Fd): 3.2%  
>begin iteration 124? (y/n)  
>>fuck you  
>begin iteration 124? (y/n)  
>>y  
  
  
_

* * *

_Atlas1: Hey, you know how you said you were going to advise me on some IP sales? Maliwan just approached me about the barrel integration tech used in Synergy._

_HJack69: ‘course they fricking did_

_HJack69: surprised it took them this long_

_HJack69: have you SEEN how badly they ripped it off?_

_HJack69: umbrage? more like dumbrage_

_Atlas1: When would be a good time to talk strategy? Assuming you’re okay selling that one?_

_HJack69: sell no_

_HJack69: gotta license that shit_

_HJack69: come talk whenever_

_HJack69: the thing i’m working on isn’t going anywhere_

_HJack69: unless i boot it across the fricking sim space for being a fricking dick_

_Atlas1: Okay, I’ll come by after work today. 7?_

_HJack69: tty then_

* * *

Jack regards the screen of the digistructor terminal with equal parts resentment and resignation, while wishing, not for the first or second time, that he could spawn a rocket launcher in here. In this very moment, he’d even settle for a Torgue.

“You know what?” says Jack to the screen. “You suck. You suck so bad. Nothing in the history of the universe has ever sucked, or will ever suck, as much as you do.”

The screen, oblivious to his feelings, continues displaying its question.

_> begin iteration 148? (y/n)_

_Y,_ thinks Jack at the screen, though in his mind, it sounds more like _‘why-y-y_ ’.

Before he can pull together another set of specs to try and persuade the digistructor that eridium, or something approximating eridium, can exist without imploding the known rules of the universe, the chat window appears in the corner of his vision.

_Atlas1: On my way._

Jack chuckles as he nods at the chat to send his response.

_HJack69: ditching work early just for me?_

_Atlas1: What are you talking about? It’s 8:30 already. I got held up in Marketing._

Huh? Jack taps the screen to bring up the timestamp. Unless the chat has been tampered with (something Jack can’t immediately think of a good reason for), Rhys is telling the truth. It’s half past eight on a…

_HJack69: what day is it?_

_Atlas1: Thursday. Why, is your calendar showing something different?_

_HJack69: no_

_HJack69: just lost track of time, i guess_

_HJack69: anyway, get in here_

Jack waves the chat screen up and away, swipes the digistructor’s screen off to the side, then pauses with his hand in mid-air. There’s a strange tingle in his skin, residual warmth and a ghost of pressure, as if the brief touch of the screen against his fingertips decided to linger, somehow.

He pulls the chat screen back down with a contactless gesture, then brings the flat of his palm into slow contact with its surface: hologlass, the kind Jack had always preferred for touch screens back in the real world, for the extra bit of feedback that pure holo couldn’t provide. 

Tactile input rushes into Jack through a myriad byte-sized floodgates, courses up his arm through the nerves and veins and tendons and muscles and bones he’s forgotten to have, pulls his heart inwards onto itself like so many singularity grenades before exploding it into a pulse, strikes a hammer blow on his diaphragm to make his lungs expand. Jack reels, or almost, ‘cause his virtual form is still figuring out how to coordinate its muscles for something as complex. He just stands there, one quivering palm still pressed against the screen, staring ahead of himself, breathing, feeling, _existing_ as something other than pure mind, for the first time in… days, gotta be.

“F-fuck…” mutters Jack. His voice sounds strange to his own ears. He hasn’t spoken in all these days, either, he realizes, not out loud. Even when he thought he was slagging off the tech, he was projecting audio digitally, not shaping simulated air into sound and words.

“Jack?..” comes a voice from somewhere off to the side. Jack turns his head, slowly, to find its source.

Rhys stands a few feet away from him. He’s wearing a black open-collar button-up and slacks to match, topped with a dark grey blazer and an expression that’s not a million miles away from that time he dropped into here to find Jack naked. (Just in case, Jack tilts his eyes a fraction to check that he _has_ got clothes on this time.)

“Hey,” Jack breathes. He forces himself to take his hand off the screen; breaking the contact coats his fingers in cold, like a fine mist of liquid nitrogen.

“Are you okay?” Rhys tilts his head to the side as he watches Jack, before a frown crawls onto his face. “Were you… getting… _weird_ with some tech here, or something?”

“Hah!” Jack barks out a laugh. “Yeah, you might say that. But it’s not whatever you’re imagining in there.” He gestures at Rhys’s expression of thinly veiled distaste. “I think I might’ve… interfaced with this thing a bit too deep– goddammit, cupcake, would you stop it with the face? It was… an AI thing, I guess. Kinda like–”

“You know what?” Rhys raises his hands, palms out. “I don’t think I wanna know. Both you and the VR are in one piece this time: I’m going to chalk it up as a success.”

“That’s the stuff, kid. Gotta take a win where you can get one. Now...” Jack walks over to Rhys and throws an arm around his shoulders, steering them both towards the ‘office’ area. “Let’s talk about how you’re gonna take Maliwan to the freaking cleaners. They want a taste of that sweet, sweet Synergy tech, do they?”

“Oh yeah.” Rhys nods. A smirk touches the corner of his mouth. “And you said I should go for the licensing option this time?”

“Absolutely. A patent is one and done, but a license is a gift that just keeps on giving.” Jack keeps his arm casually slung over Rhys’s shoulder as they walk. The tension in Rhys’s posture is unmistakable, but the kid makes no actual effort to shake him off. That’s good enough for now. 

When they reach the seating area, and Rhys slips away from under Jack’s arm to claim his usual grey armchair, the broken contact isn’t as jarring anymore. Still. Jack would’ve preferred there was a way for them to keep touching.

And it’s not like Jack’s being weird, or anything. All he’s looking for right now is _contact_ , any contact, to ground his mind back in this semi-corporeal form of his, to fill in the blanks left by the accidental spell of sensory deprivation he’d landed himself in during these past few days.

...Okay, maybe he’s being a little weird.

“Alright,” Jack says, settling down in the yellow armchair. “Walk me through it: what exactly are they looking to buy? How much do they think they know about the tech?”

As he listens to Rhys describe the proposed deal, Jack crosses his ankle over his knee as he does so often, rests his hand over the top edge of his sneaker. He lets his fingers fidget, as if in thought, as they document the shapes and materials and sensations. The firm fabric of the trouser leg, the rougher stitches at the back of the sneaker, the smooth leather and velvety suede panels on top, the grippy rubber sole at the bottom. Every bit of input, even so thoroughly mundane, brings back to life some temporarily neglected nodes, re-forges the emulated pathways for corporeality in his emulated mind. 

By the time Rhys is done talking, Jack feels most of the way back to real again. Well, as real as he gets to be in here, anyway; but hey, you gotta take a win where you can get one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: as of the posting of this chapter, this fic is at 65 subscribers. Once that magic number hits 69, I will be writing another "deleted scene" type smut piece, a follow-up to [the one I did to celebrate 50 subscribers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572342). So if you're into that and haven't subscribed yet, you know what to do.  
> Also, if you're on twitter, [I am too these days.](https://twitter.com/CaffeinatedOwl1)


	13. Warranties, Indemnities and Representations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _if i may, pumpkin_
> 
> _my guess as to what's going on here_
> 
> "Why the hell not…" mutters Rhys. "Guess away."
> 
> _you're mad at me_
> 
> Rhys's face freezes before he chokes out an incredulous laugh.
> 
> "That's the conclusion you took all this time to arrive at? Of course I'm mad at you, you freaking _sociopath_! That was never in question!"
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to take a break from the regular updating schedule: thank you for your patience, everyone. Don't worry, however: the work on this fic continues, and I plan to update every 10-12 days for the foreseeable future.
> 
> * * *

Rhys stares at the number that Jack has made appear in thin air. He gives it a good fifteen seconds’ worth of scrutiny just to make sure neither of his eyes is deceiving him.

“Just to be clear. You’re suggesting I ask Maliwan for this–” he gestures at the number– “per year? Indefinitely?”

“Oh, not _indefinitely_. Just as long as they want to keep using the _Syntegrate_ barrel-receiver compatibility protocol. And seeing as it’s gonna take them, hmm…” Jack mutters under his breath, counts something on his fingers. “I’m gonna say, one year to reverse engineer it, another two to produce their own version that’ll be just different enough not to get a lawsuit up their ass, so that’s three years… Yeah, try and get them to sign for a five-year minimum. Don’t go below four.”

“You sure they want it this badly?” asks Rhys.

“Seller’s market, kiddo. They came to you, didn’t they?”

 _No_ , thinks Rhys. _No, they didn’t_.

“Yes,” says Rhys. “But just to be sure. If they decide that they’re not happy with these terms–”

“Then you remind them that they’re turning down an opportunity to increase the fire rate of their Umbrage series by a minimum of one hundred and eighty percent and an average of two hundred and ten.”

“And if they–”

“And if the fuckers breathe a single word about _reverse recoil vs. accuracy from the get-go_ –” the mockery in Jack’s voice suggests this is a point of contention as frequent as it is annoying– “then feel free to remind them thanks to the shorter bullet travel time and bigger magazine, the Synergy still has superior stopping power, which is exactly what anyone shopping for a handgun with a Vladof double barrel is looking for. This baby isn’t for sniping any more than a sniper rifle is for the good old spray-and-pray, and the target market – pun unintended – isn’t gonna give two shits about a couple of seconds of reduced accuracy before reverse recoil fully kicks in.“

“Got it.” Rhys nods, ever so grateful that the VR is still logging both video and audio. When he does get around to licensing this tech to Maliwan, he will be using some of Jack’s words verbatim, and he isn’t even going to be ashamed of that.

“And finally, if they look like they need a little extra push to close, don’t be afraid to turn up the pressure. Let’s say…” Jack drums his fingers on his knee, then, with a snap, turns his hand into a finger gun aimed at Rhys. “Tell them that if they _don’t_ want the license, it’s really their loss, ‘cause if you retain exclusive rights to the _Syntegrate_ tech, you’ll be putting it to good use in the next line of Atlas guns, and isn’t that double barrel just _perfect_ for a dual-element configuration?”

Rhys frowns. 

“I thought that entering the elemental game was a terrible idea for Atlas right now? Extra upfront costs, challenging the reigning champion, all that?”

“Oh, look who’s been paying attention.” Jack adds a second finger gun into the picture. “Yeah, of course that’d be the worst idea right now, and you’re not gonna _actually_ do any of it. But Maliwan don’t know that, do they? So go ahead and tighten the screws on them a bit, just to spook ‘em. You know, kinda like I did with the whole ‘five years and a body’ thing?”

“Five ye–” It takes Rhys a moment to hear, _really_ hear, the words that just came out of Jack’s mouth. He stares ahead of him: at Jack, through Jack, past Jack, at _past Jack_. Not the Jack who’s lounging in the armchair opposite Rhys, pointing a pair of finger guns while he rattles off some animated spiel about actual guns; but the Jack whose face is mere inches from Rhys’s, eyes cold as an aurora over an ice field, whose voice echoes in Rhys’s head, every syllable offering as little mercy as whatever might stalk those frozen plains at night.

_You’re making deals with the devil. And I’ve got no use for your soul._

That– All of that. All of that was a–

Rhys can’t even bring himself to finish the thought. He grips the arms of his chair as the world tilts and slips around him, settling at an odd angle, as if someone had accidentally bumped the setting for simulated gravity off-center.

“Hey, you okay, kiddo?” Jack’s voice is muffled and distorted, like he’s speaking through a bunch of cotton wool while Rhys is listening from somewhere underwater. “Looking kinda green around the gills there.”

“A BLUFF?” Rhys blurts, and the sound is back to normal so fast, his own voice hurts his ears with the volume. (Even Jack flinches back in his chair for a split second.) “You were FUCKING WITH ME?”

“Uh.” Jack cocks an eyebrow and considers Rhys with an expression suggesting that between the two of them, _Rhys_ is a piece of software that’s not doing what it’s supposed to. “Yeah, babe, ‘course I was fucking with ya. I mean, even if you didn’t get it at the time– I mean, of course you didn’t get it at the time, would’ve been a shitty bluff otherwise. But I kinda assumed you’d have figured it out by now, once you’d had a drink, got your head back on straight, watched the replay a couple times?”

“I…” Rhys doesn’t get past the vague stammered syllable. It seems better than to admit that beyond the actual terms agreed upon, he’s been working hard to erase as much of that conversation as possible from his mind. 

“Oh wow, okay.” Jack runs his hand through his hair. “Just clear this up for me, will ya? You thought – and I mean, actually thought, in a ‘of sound-ish mind’ kinda state – that I was for real about the body thing? As in, I was proposing ‘hand over your body for me to live in’ as a feasible option? As in, I was suggesting you basically commit suicide five years from now, and I was apparently okay with that… and you still came down here to talk IP sales?” Jack leans back, an almost-incredulous smile on his lips. “Well, hot damn, kid, you must _really_ want that Maliwan money. That’s some stone-cold ruthless pragmatism, right there. I respect that.”

Rhys sits there, mutely. Stone-cold, ruthless and pragmatic. Yes, that’s exactly what he is. Not a sappy idiot who invented the whole Maliwan licensing deal because he wanted an excuse to see Jack. Because he fucking _missed Jack_.

(Yeah, Rhys. This, here, is the guy you’ve been missing. What the fuck _is_ wrong with you? Maybe the not-quite-Jack voice in your head is right after all. Do you _actually_ get off on this? Or do you just hate yourself?)

(He’ll be damned if he knows which is the better option.)

“And secondly,” Jack continues, clearly oblivious to Rhys’s well-practiced descent into a vortex of self-loathing, “god _dammit_ , cupcake, you always gotta do a post-mortem. How the hell are you gonna learn if you don’t examine your fuck-ups? You really telling me you haven’t checked the footage to see the play-by-play?” 

“No, I haven–” Rhys stops the answer halfway, but it’s half an answer too late. “Shit,” he breathes. “You know about the logging.” 

Jack spreads his arms with a smile. “I’m a bastard, and you’re paranoid. Didn’t take a huge leap of faith to assume you’d have none in me.”

No. Of course it fucking didn’t.

“How long have you known?”

“Since ten seconds ago, give or take. I mean, I’d been guessing since day one, but it was real nice of you to just go ahead and prove me right like that.” Jack winks. “Oh, don’t give me that look, cupcake. What, you’re worried I’m mad about it, or something? Come _on_. Kinda proud of ya, kiddo. Really. You did the smart thing. Well, you _were_ doing the smart thing, right up till the point where you fell for another one of my bluffs literally seconds after I’d explained how bluffing is my weapon of choice. _Damn_ , am I good at this or am I fucking awesome at this? Okay, back to the Maliwan thing–”

“No, no, hold it right there–” Rhys begins, determined to address at least some of the freshly-opened cans of worms, even if he has no idea which one to grab first. 

Jack, however, doesn’t seem to have a problem blowing right past the entire wriggling shipping crate.

“I’m thinking once you’ve threatened them with that dual-element project that you’ve no intention of going for, you’ll have them on the ropes–”

“Jack.” Rhys raises his hand. Jack pays him no heed.

“Now, once they agree to the four-year contract–”

 _Last… freaking… warning_ , thinks Rhys as he makes a screen appear with a minute gesture of his cybernetic arm.

“JACK. You’re gonna wanna shut up right about now.”

“And you’re gonna wanna stop interrupting, kiddo, if you wanna actually learn something this ti–” Jack’s voice cuts out mid-sentence, but his lips keep moving for a good few seconds more before he realizes he’s not making any sound.

Jack’s eyes drift from Rhys’s face to Rhys’s right hand, still raised, and the lines of his face morph from confusion through momentary shock into sheer fury as he takes in the screen hovering at Rhys’s fingertips, and the solitary symbol on display.

A speaker, with two lines crisscrossing over it.

Jack sits forward, his weight shifting onto his feet, fingers gripping the arms of his chair, head down, eyes locked on Rhys. The change in his posture is the exact opposite from the lightning-fast, blink-and-you-miss-it flicker of expressions across his face. This shift is tectonic, as smooth as it is unstoppable, the shift you can spend years being unaware of until you watch, in numb horror, as entire continents are being crushed into magma.

Even without sound, Rhys can hear the words Jack’s lips are forming – _You did not just fucking MUTE me, Rhysie_ – and the way Jack’s upper lip curls into a snarl around his name is almost enough to make Rhys discorporate the hell out of here, yank the hard drive out of the VR rig, demagnetize it, then melt it in acid for good measure. Deals be damned, Jack be damned, Atlas be damned. 

_Almost_.

“Yes, I did,” Rhys says. He can hear the tremor in his own voice, and he knows that it’s only around forty percent anger; forty-five tops. He doesn’t care. “Because I’m not talking about the deal I’d like to make with Maliwan until we’ve discussed the deal I’ve made with you.”

(Rhys has no idea if he’s going to be fast enough to pull himself out of the simulation if Jack actually goes for his throat right now, but the software is supposed to have safeguards. It’s supposed to kick him out of here if it detects any danger to his life and health.)

(This is a really bad time to remember that he’s never actually tested that.)

Jack watches him, motionless, eyes blazing, nostrils flared. Then he jerks his chin at the screen hovering between them. A message flashes into life, a livid incandescent blue, every pixel sharp enough to slice across the retina.

_no takebacks_

Rhys considers Jack, only allowing a few moments of eye contact at a time, lest he withers under Jack’s glare, just as he did back then, exactly as he did back then. _You’re the one with the power in here, Rhys, remember that._ His eyes wander to Jack’s hands, his white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, much like Rhys’s own was a few moments ago, and a terrible, _terrible_ thought surfaces in Rhys’s mind.

It would only take him a moment to make that chair grow a pair of wrist locks.

Wouldn’t _that_ be a turn-up for the books, eh, Jack? Sitting there tied down, at the mercy of someone who owns and controls every aspect of the very space you’re in, railing against the restraints as you watch a deal being backed out of, a promise being broken, a tentative, hopeful trust being crushed underfoot.

Wonder what _that’s_ like, JACK.

Rhys could do that. He could do that easily. One blink to summon the HUD and look up the item ID of the chair Jack is sat in. One flick of his eye to parse through the catalogue of available shapes and materials for an appropriate bolt-on. One thought to send the command directly into the screen; yes, he’s gotten so much better at manipulating the VR without the need to summon a keyboard.

Of course, after he’s done that, he might as well go ahead and melt the hard drive, because Jack would either dedicate the rest of his digital existence to ending Rhys’s life, or simply never speak to him again. (Rhys hates the fact that he isn’t sure which would be worse.)

Rhys knows that. He knows that this act of… righteous vengeance? just retribution? petty payback? – would destroy everything beyond repair. But there’s a part of his mind that’s yearning and aching for it, _screaming_ that it would be worth it, it would all be worth it, even for a single moment of seeing Jack like that. 

Helpless. Hopeless. _Hurting_.

( _You two really are more alike than you like to admit, aren’t you?_ )

(Yeah, thinks Rhys. Maybe we are. Maybe we fucking deserve each other. Maybe this was never going to work.)

Rhys takes a deep breath and looks at the screen again, meets the glare of Jack’s message head-on before turning to meet the glare of Jack himself. Anger still emanates off him in waves, but it doesn’t burn Rhys like before, doesn’t make him flinch away. It passes right through him, intangible, _irrelevant_. 

Because in Rhys’s mind, clear as anything, is the image of Jack, freshly betrayed in Rhys’s imagination, and the memory of Rhys himself, betrayed back on Helios. No longer content to sit side by side, the two drift into each other, superimposing until it’s no longer possible to discern memory from vision from vision from memory, until the combined image settles in front of Rhys’s eyes like a lens, throwing the angles of Jack’s face into a different focus, and Rhys can see, he can finally see, under Jack’s charisma and posturing and intimidation, under the harsh lines of his mouth and his unyielding stare, underneath it all… fear.

Jack tilts his eyes away from Rhys and onto the screen. A single character appends itself onto the end of the message. A question mark.

_no takebacks?_

Rhys swallows, then nods at the screen, replacing the question mark with a full stop.

_no takebacks._

Out loud, he adds, “But you’re still gonna sit here and listen to what I have to say.”

Jack’s countenance slips a few notches down on the fury scale, from _I Will Strangle You With Your Own Hand_ to somewhere around _You’re Really Pissing Me Off, Kiddo._ But he does nothing except cock an eyebrow at the screen.

_go on_

* * *

Anger is an old friend of Jack's. They've gotten to know each other so well over the years, he could catalogue the many different shades and shapes the feeling is liable to take, complete with instructions to whoever finds themselves on the receiving end. And if one were to flip through this hypothetical catalogue to find the exact kind of anger that's coursing through Jack right now, the entry they'd land on wouldn't be the simmering glow and echoing alarm bells captioned _watch it,_ nor the blinding, blistering flashpoint stamped with all-capitals _RUN._ This anger, hot and dark and heavy, would be found at the very end of the catalogue, and there wouldn't be any helpful instructions for the poor sucker who gets to bear witness to it. Because if you've distinguished yourself enough to stand before this particular anger of Jack's, any subsequent choices you make will have exactly zero bearing on your fate.

Except this isn't the case right now. Jack's the one with the anger, but he's also the one with no power, no recourse. He's the only variable in this ruinous equation, and the anger is a runaway chemical reaction, a self-perpetuating, accelerating downward spiral, a noose that tightens around his neck the more he struggles.

But to let go means to resign himself to have nothing but a hope for mercy, a kernel of trust that slips through his fingers as he tries to grasp at it through layers of sticky terror it's wrapped up in.

Jack knows the exact shape and size of this kernel of trust. The shape, a square. The size, two pixels tall by two pixels wide. The full stop at the end of the sentence that's still glowing on the screen.

 _no takebacks_.

Four pixels' worth of trust. Nowhere enough to allay the fear, or dispel the anger. But it’s a handhold. An anchor. A start.

(And it’s four pixels more than you deserve, Jack.)

So he will sit here, quietly– 

_(Still can’t believe you went ahead and fucking_ muted _me, you little shit, that alone is enough to–)_

(Shut up, Jack)

–and even though he _can_ move, he will remain still– 

( _Bad move, kiddo, if you were gonna flex your power like this, shouldn’t have stopped at the gag–)_

(Shut up, Jack.)

–and he will listen to what Rhys has to say.

( _So are you gonna get to talking, or is silent treatment a part of the punishment?_ )

(Shut up, Ja– okay, actually, that's kind of a fair point.)

Indeed, for someone who demanded to be given the floor, Rhys remains teeth-grindingly quiet. Swallowing the urge to fling his impatience onto the screen, Jack searches the kid's face for clues.

This is neither a dramatic pause nor a show of power, Jack concludes after a moment’s consideration. He can see thoughts moving behind Rhys's eyes, minute expressions ghosting across his features, lips parting on a breath only to press together again a moment later, words swallowed back down before they get a chance to fully form.

Okay, thinks Jack. He may not be allowed to talk, but it looks like if he doesn't help Rhys get started, they'll be here all day.

He nods at the screen.

_if i may, pumpkin_

_my guess as to what's going on here_

"Why the hell not…" mutters Rhys. "Guess away."

_you're mad at me_

Rhys's face freezes before he chokes out an incredulous laugh.

" _That's_ the conclusion you took all this time to arrive at? Of course I'm mad at you, you freaking _sociopath_! That was never in question!"

Jack swallows a smile and raises a finger. The message on the screen continues.

_you’re mad at me ‘cause i played dirty_

“No. I mean, yes, but…” Rhys shakes his head. “Look, it’s not that I’d expected you of all people to be on the level, but there’s playing dirty and there’s playing dirty–” Rhys _glares_ as he sees Jack glance towards the screen. “I swear to god, Jack, one freaking innuendo out of you right now, and the mute setting is going to be the least of your problems, don’t fucking test me.”

 _Now look who’s playing dirty_ , thinks Jack, ‘cause come _on_ , you can’t say all that and _then_ ban innuendos. That’s just not freaking fair. He rolls his eyes. 

_fine, fine_

_you’re hot when you’re making threats_

_that wasn’t an innuendo, btw_

_just stating the obvious_

_go on_

“Yes, you see?” Rhys gestures with exaggerated exasperation, while his face is _almost_ void of blush. “ _This_ is the kind of crap I’d expected you to pull. The strutting you just can’t help, the flirting I know you don’t mean anything by. But to actually low-key threaten to take over my body as a freaking negotiation tactic? That wasn’t playing dirty. That was a real dick move. Even for you, Jack.” Rhys leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “And that’s saying something.”

Oh, come on, thinks Jack. At least the threats were kinda fun. This… pouting, though? He’s not sure how to deal with that.

 _kiddo_ , he thinks into the screen, only to have his message literally glared out of existence. That’s equal parts petty and amusing, and Jack’s immediately tempted to up the pettiness and go through a handful of nicknames, just to watch Rhys get wound back up again as he obliterates every address that he deems inappropriate. Even stronger is the temptation to purposefully err the other way and start the next message with _Dear Mr. Strongfork_. That’d probably get his text privileges revoked, but it’d almost be worth it.

So many temptations, and so many ways to send this weird-ass conversation to hell, piss the kid off properly and watch him leave. But only one way forward if Jack wants this to actually continue.

(Well, maybe two. ‘Cause Jack knows there’s a form of address Rhys won’t be able to resist, a word he _knows_ will bring that smug little smile to his face even if he hides it seconds later. It’d certainly put the kid in a better mood, too, and god knows Jack could use that right now.)

(Except it’s not _Atlas_ who’s sitting there pouting, is it now? No more than it’s _Hyperion_ contemplating what to say next. It’s not Atlas who’s upset at Hyperion– oh, fuck, that’s what it is, isn’t it? Rhys isn’t _mad_ at him, not anymore, at least. He’s _upset_. Freaking hell.)

Jack thinks into the screen again.

_Rhys_

The message receives a similar glare as before, but is allowed to stay. The kid doesn’t make eye contact with Jack, however, and that just won’t do.

Jack draws a slow arc through the air with his left hand, causing the screen to float over to his side. If Rhys wants to keep the subtitles on, well, he’s gotta have to look Jack in the face as he reads them.

_did you really think i wasn’t gonna push your buttons like i did?_

_i mean… you’ve met me, haven’t you?_

Rhys’s eyes coast from the message to Jack’s face and back. He’s looking in the general direction of Jack, but not quite at him as he answers.

“I thought… considering that _crap_ you pulled back on Helios…”

Helios.

The memory washes over Jack like a bad dream, or what a bad dream would feel like if his current AI form were able to dream, or even to sleep. The magnificence and grandeur and _power_ that was Helios, that was him _as_ Helios; and the hope and terror and desperation with which he reached through the link that was supposed to let him talk to Angel; and the nothing, nothing, _nothing_ he had found at the other end, because the link was dead, and so was she, and so, from that moment on, for all intents and purposes, was a part of Jack; and the anger and pain and pain and anger multiplied with the power of Helios, _by_ the power of Helios, _to_ the power of Helios, until all that remained of Jack was anger and pain and the wish to _cause_ pain, to pour his pain into something, into some _one_ … and the perfect target, perfect recipient, perfect receptacle was right in his office. Worried about Jack’s brief disappearance. Relieved at Jack’s return. Offering to try and help Jack _one more time_ even as a digital projection of Jack towered over him from the screen and threatened and locked metal restraints around his wrists–

(Rhys’s face surfaces in front of Jack’s eyes: skin pale with a smattering of nervous pink, ashen lips shaking, poorly concealed fear in his mismatched eyes. Brown and blue. Brown and gold.)

Agreeing to help Jack _one more time_ even as a VR projection of Jack towered over him and intimidated him into a deal he never should’ve taken, but one the kid says he’s still choosing to honor.

(Holy shit. You really _are_ an asshole, Jack.)

Jack takes a breath that he doesn’t need and contemplates his next message.

_okay_

_the Helios thing?_

_of course i was gonna exploit the hell outta of that, Rhys_

_you shouldn’t have let me_

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Now Rhys is finally looking Jack in the face again, the earlier pout hardened into a scowl. “You’re gonna blame _me_ for your trying to screw me over again?”

Jack waves a hand, points at the screen again.

_this isn’t about blame_

_but you knew that was your weak point_

_more importantly, you knew i knew_

_‘cause i’m the reason it exists_

_look, i’m telling you this ‘cause i’m on your side now_

_don’t let your buttons get pushed like this_

_‘cause you know what happened when i let some assholes push mine?_

_i died in a freaking volcano with a giant hole in my chest, kid_

_i’m gonna assume you wanna do better than that_

Jack maintains eye contact with Rhys as he feeds the lines into the screen. He can feel Rhys’s eyes wandering his face, looking for… something. Perhaps trying to pinpoint the deceit behind this clearly unexpected earnestness – and who can blame him, ‘cause since when does Jack talk straight, right? There’s gotta be a catch, a twist, something Jack’s not telling him.

(And he’s not wrong. ‘Cause what Jack’s not telling him, what Jack probably will never tell him, is that the whole Helios thing, that was never the plan. And that what happened there wasn’t really about Rhys, and it was barely even about Jack. And that he, Rhys, didn’t deserve that. And that he, Jack, is sorry.)

(Even if Jack could tell him all of that, it’s not like Rhys would believe him. He’s having trouble believing something as simple as ‘I’m on your side now’. And – once more for the people in the back – who can freaking blame him?)

“If you’re really on my side now, Jack,” Rhys says, finally, “then don’t fuck with my head like that again.”

Jack allows himself a grin and winks at the screen.

_come on, you don’t want me to go too easy on you_

_gotta stay sharp, babe_

He catches Rhys’s look and adds,

_okay, okay, the Helios thing? off-limits_

_anything else i need to promise you before i’m allowed to talk again?_

The corner of Rhys’s mouth curls up.

“You’ve been off mute for the last couple of minutes. I was wondering when you were going to notice.”

“You…” Jack starts, then sputters, thrown by the sound of his own voice, the fact that his voice _has_ a sound again. He backhands the screen out of existence and leans forward again, eyes boring into Rhys. “You little SHIT. I should wring your neck just for this.”

Even to Jack, his own threat sounds thoroughly perfunctory. Judging by the fact that Rhys doesn’t move a muscle except to let the self-satisfied expression take over more of his face, Rhys isn’t fooled into being scared, either.

(Jack doesn’t mind that. The glint in Rhys’s eye, the barely-discernible chuckle escaping through the corner of his little smirk, the, hah, such exaggerated, purposefully casual ease with which he leans back in his chair and crosses those ridiculous legs – yeah, Jack likes all of that a whole lot better than terrified eyes and trembling lips.)

“Anyway,” says Jack. “Dirty negotiating tactics aside, I meant what I’d said in the first place. I want a body of my own. I’m not interested in–” he gestures up and down in Rhys’s general direction– “any of that.”

(Lies, thinks Jack as lets his eyes linger on Rhys’s neck for a moment longer, not for the purposes of threatened wringing, but to follow the black circles of his tattoo to where they disappear under the side of his shirt collar. Lies, lies, lies.)

“Good,” says Rhys, and Jack hates that he can’t tell if that’s a lie, too, but nowhere as much as he hates the fact that he wishes it was.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what you’re working with here, the whole new style you’ve got going.” (What are you doing, Jack?) “That a new suit? It’s a good look on you.” (Seriously, man, you better pretend you have a point here.) “You should wear that to Maliwan.” (That’ll do.)

“I came here for negotiation tips, Jack, not wardrobe approval.” Rhys’s tone is professionalism laced with a finely measured dose of sarcasm. It puts Jack in mind of dark chocolate with flecks of salt and spices, before Jack grabs the part of his brain that’s coming out with ridiculous similes and promptly shoves it out an imaginary airlock, because _what the fuck, Jack_.

“Well, here’s a negotiation tip for you, cupcake. Flirt your ass off.” Jack grins at Rhys’s incredulous stare. “I mean it. You’re objectively hot, you can’t afford _not_ to use that in your favor.”

“First of all, I resent the implication that I can _only_ get the upper hand by using my looks. And secondly…” Rhys crosses his arms again. “I’m not flirting with _Katagawa_.”

“First of all, that wasn’t the implication. All I said, you gotta use all the tools at your disposal. That means that halfway decent brain of yours _and_ the pretty face in front of it. And secondly, all I’m saying is, bat your eyelashes at him, or something. It’s not like I’m suggesting you go sucking the guy’s dick to close the deal. For that, there’s gotta be at least a few billion on the table.”

Rhys gives off a visible shudder. “Not even for a few _trillion_.”

“Really?” Jack cocks an eyebrow. “I’ve done it for two and a half. Wasn’t anyone from Maliwan, though.”

“Wait, what?” Rhys blinks at Jack. “You blew someone to close a two-and-a-half trillion deal?”

“Sure did.” Jack grins wider as he watches the spots of pink on Rhys’s cheekbones blooming into something approximating magenta. “It’s the big leagues, kid. Most days, you’re gotta get your hands dirty. Some days, you gotta get your knees dirty, too.”

Rhys’s face is a tapestry of burning questions that Jack’s almost sure the kid’s not going to ask, not yet. Even so, Jack can practically see the mental images lining up behind his eyes, and, yeah, those are gotta keep Rhysie entertained for a while.

“One day…” Rhys says, finally. “One day, you’re gonna have to tell me this story. But I’m still not flirting with Katagawa.”


	14. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Spare no detail,” Jack tells Rhys, and Rhys really doesn’t. He talks and talks and talks, recounting every detail of his trip, of his triumph over Maliwan.
> 
> He talks and smiles and laughs. He won’t stop gesturing, or sit still for more than five seconds at a time. His eyes are ablaze, his face aglow. And Jack, sitting across from him, watches and listens, amusement giving way to fascination that borders on enrapturement. Watches Rhys as he basks, unabashed, in his own victory. 
> 
> Triumphant.
> 
> Brilliant. 
> 
> Beautiful.
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW when you don't know whether to say 'you're welcome' or 'I'm sorry'. Both? Both is good.  
> Also, I'm fully leaning into the fanon that Jack's first wife was a Jakobs, based on the fact that in BL3, you can find a picture of her and Jack in the Jakobs estate (which is one of the few pieces of BL3 I will accept as canon).
> 
> * * *

“Maliwan’s shuttle will be here to pick you up in half an hour,” Drew informs Rhys on the intercom. “Can I get you anything before you leave?”

“I’m all set, thanks,” says Rhys.

“Are you sure? You haven’t had any lunch. Want me to get you something before you go?”

“Thanks, Drew.” Rhys chuckles. “I really am good, though. I don’t like eating before going into orbit. The g’s don’t play well with a full stomach.”

“I’ll make sure something’s waiting for you when you get back, then. Unless you’ll be having dinner with Mr. Katagawa?”

“I will _not_ be having dinner with Mr. Katagawa,” Rhys says, pointedly. “So you’ll have my undying love if you can arrange for a pizza for when I’m back.”

“No problem, Rhys. Office or apartment?”

“Apartment,” Rhys answers, after a moment’s glance in the direction of the VR room. Who knows how late it’ll be when he gets back. And even if everything goes well, a round trip to orbit and back with a few hours in the company of Katagawa Jr. in-between is something that should be followed by a shower, food and rest. All sorts of debriefing with Jack can wait until tomorrow.

Once his PA is satisfied that the Atlas CEO won’t _actually_ starve to death today, Rhys sits back and taps his fingers on the file containing the paperwork prepared for his sales pitch. He stops himself from going over everything one last time; he knows those briefs backwards by now. A quick flick of his right hand confirms that the necessary data and graphs can be summoned from the palm display at a moment’s notice. A glance in a mirror maintains that his hair looks just right.

Looks like he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. It takes five minutes to get from his office to the roof landing pad. That leaves twenty minutes to kill.

Rhys switches on the second monitor on his desk, considers the open chat window, hovers his fingers over the keyboard for a beat, then punches in a one-word message.

_Atlas1: Pangolin?_

Jack’s answer comes seconds later.

_HJack69: nope_

_Atlas1: Tediore?_

_HJack69: hahahahaha_

_HJack69: in what universe does tediore have 2.5 billion, let alone a cool 2.5 tril?_

_Atlas1: Good point. Gotta be one of the big guys. On that note: Torgue?_

_HJack69: LMFAO_

_HJack69: no_

_Atlas1: Aww. I was rooting for that one._

_HJack69: wtf is wrong with you_

Obviously, way too many things to get into in the time allotted, thinks Rhys, based on the fact that his idea of killing some time before a meeting is chatting to the AI of his former CEO, current business partner and a number of other descriptors that Rhys _really_ doesn’t have time to get into right now (or ever, thank you) on the subject of whom said guy, back in the days of corporeal existence, gave a blowjob to in order to close a 2.5 trillion dollar business deal.

_Atlas1: Dahl?_

_HJack69: not even close_

Rhys contemplates the screen before sending in his next guess. He knows it has nothing to do with anything or anyone in present day, but his stomach still feels like he’s been hit with a few g’s when he lets his finger land on the return key.

_Atlas1: Was it Atlas?_

For a few ridiculously long seconds, Rhys stares down the screen, then grabs the keyboard to make a hasty addition of ‘back in the day’, but the response comes through before he can send it.

_HJack69: tragically…_

_HJack69: no_

While he erases the unsent postscriptum and wills his face to return to its normal color, Rhys eyes the chat for a follow-up, something along the lines of ‘’cause Such-and-Such of old Atlas was a real stunner’, anything to clearly earmark Jack’s answer as, indeed, having nothing to do with any _thing_ or any _one_ in present day.

No follow-up follows. Rhys bites down on his lip and gives his head a quick, sharp shake to dislodge a collection of mental images that have no place in– well, by rights, no place in his mind, period, but as a bare minimum, no place in the daytime hours.

(As if imagining Jack going down on an unspecified someone wasn’t bad enough. As if Rhys _needed_ the visual of Jack on his knees, fingers digging into Rhys’s hips, face buried between Rhys’s thighs, mouth–)

(Oh yeah, good job, no, _great_ job dislodging those mental images.)

Rhys shuts his eyes and presses his cybernetic palm to each of his cheeks in turn, hoping the cool metal will draw some of the heat out of his skin; although if he didn’t need to look presentable for today’s meeting, he would just go ahead and slap his own face right now.

He reaches for the keyboard again and types (staunchly ignoring the part of his mind that promptly supplies a handful of jokes about typing one-handed).

_Atlas1: Really running out of options here._

_HJack69: told you you’d never guess_

_Atlas1: You must’ve lied to me at some point._

_HJack69: obvs_

_HJack69: but not about any of this_

Rhys stares at the ceiling while he runs the list of potential candidate companies through his mind. Someone big enough to pull off a $2.5 trillion deal; someone producing or selling something that Hyperion wanted a cut of, or wanted to buy loads of; someone that Hyperion really wanted to make a deal with– No, someone that _Jack_ really wanted to make a deal with.

Hang on. Can it really be that obvious? Has the answer been hiding in plain sight all along?

_Atlas1: Hyperion?_

_HJack69: huh?_

_Atlas1: Was it someone at Hyperion?_

_HJack69: HAH!_

_HJack69: nah, kid. never had the temperament to try and sleep my way up the ranks. lots of blackmail + a bit of murder, that was my career elevator_

_HJack69: well done thinking outside the box, tho_

Rhys curses out loud and slaps the armrest of his chair. Dammit! It would’ve been such a good guess, too.

(And it being Hyperion would’ve meant that it might’ve happened somewhere on Helios, which would make it even easier to imagine–)

(Good _god_ , Rhys, if you’re going to be like that, you’d better leave the chat alone and go jerk off real quick before you leave. The last thing you want is meeting Katagawa while looking all hot and bothered.)

“What am I missing…” Rhys mutters as he scrolls back through the chat. Only then does he notice something he _has_ been missing. Their ridiculous guessing game started shortly after Rhys got to his office this morning, before being placed on a few hours’ hold until now. During those hours, however, one of his guesses has stayed on the screen, unanswered and ignored by Jack. Ignored far too conspicuously. 

“Gotcha, Jack...” Rhys grabs the keyboard.

_Atlas1: I know who it was._

_HJack69: do enlighten me_

_Atlas1: Jakobs._

Jack’s silence speaks volumes, each of which makes Rhys grin ever wider.

_Atlas1: I’m right, aren’t I? Want to know how I know?_

_HJack69: no_

_HJack69: ‘cause you don’t know_

_HJack69: game over_

_Atlas1: Yeah, it is. I won._

_HJack69: you didn’t win shit, kid_

_HJack69: it wasn’t Jakobs_

_HJack69: let it go_

_Atlas1: If it wasn’t Jakobs, then why didn’t you answer yes or no, back when I guessed it this morning? And why didn’t you give me a straight answer just now?_

_Atlas1: My theory is, you did that on purpose. This way, up until the very last moment, you could still say you hadn’t told me a lie._

_HJack69: cute_

_Atlas1: I almost fell for it, too. Come on, Jack. I got you._

_HJack69: don’t you have a negotiation to be getting to?_

A glance at the HUD tells Rhys he’s still got a few minutes in which to try and do the impossible. Namely, to make Handsome Jack admit defeat. 

_Atlas1: Who was it?_

_Atlas1: Was it Montgomery? I’ve seen pictures of him. Very handsome man._

_HJack69: yes, he is_

Rhys feels an incredulous smile spread over his face as he stares at the screen. This is as good as an admission, isn’t it? Moreover, did Jack just, even if indirectly, call someone other than himself handsome? There’s _got_ to be more of a story here.

_Atlas1: Okay, Jack, seriously. Jokes aside. Answer me this._

_HJack69: ?_

_Atlas1: Did you, like, have a thing for Montgomery Jakobs? Is that what this is about? Why you’re being so weird about it now?_

_Atlas1: Come oooooon, I need to know._

_HJack69: no_

_HJack69: i didn’t have a thing for him_

_HJack69: would’ve been pretty awkward_

_HJack69: seeing as he was my father-in-law_

Jack’s responses flash into the chat window in rapid succession. His voice isn’t there to deliver the words. His eyes aren’t there to underscore them. That doesn’t stop the words from echoing in Rhys’s ears. Doesn’t stop Rhys from seeing the blank, terrifyingly blank look in Jack’s eyes as he says them. Nor does it stop Rhys from slowly pressing into the back of his chair as he eyes the screen for continuation.

There’s none. The chat window just sits there, every pixel in it suddenly as cold and heavy as the lump in Rhys’s throat. For the second time in the past ten minutes, he wants to slap himself with his own hand: and improbably, he’s managed to give himself an even worse reason to do so.

_You moron. You absolute fucking moron, Rhys._

Even through the heavy curtain of mortified self-loathing, a million questions come swarming into Rhys’s head. Which wife was it, and how come Jack never mentioned being related to the Jakobs family, and was that why Jakobs and Hyperion were much less competitive than any other two weapons giants in this sector? Sure, a market analysis of the two would suggest that the lower level of competition resulted from there being barely any overlap in their respective target markets… but was this _why_ there was barely any overlap in their respective target markets?

...And was Jakobs’ aesthetic and design philosophy the _only_ reason they never licensed any E-tech from Hyperion?

Each and every one of these questions is pointless, because none of them will ever be asked or answered. Rhys chews on his lip as he eyes the monitor. Barely five minutes left before he needs to go up to the roof. Definitely not enough time to log into the simulation and try to apologize in person. (That’s probably a good thing.)

With a heavy heart and heavier fingers, Rhys types, slowly.

_Atlas1: Sorry._

There’s no response. Not that he’s expecting one or. Nor, for that matter, does he deserve it.

_Atlas1: I was being an idiot. I should’ve taken the hint._

_Atlas1: I’m gonna go and catch a shuttle now._

Contrary to his promise, Rhys stays motionless, bottom lip still caught between his teeth. The stupidest thought drifts into his mind. Should his shuttle crash en route, this will have been his last exchange with Jack: pointless banter turned into painful memories.

_HJack69: yeah_

_HJack69: do that_

Shit. Rhys drags both his hands down his face, then reaches for the intercom to tell Drew to stall the shuttle. He can’t leave like this, he’ll just have to be late, screw it, Katagawa can wait an extra ten fucking minutes– 

_HJack69: anshin_

_HJack69: forrest traeger_

Hand frozen halfway to the intercom, Rhys takes a moment to take in the words on the screen. Then a few more moments to do an ECHOnet search.

_Atlas1: Good-looking guy._

_HJack69: glad you approve_

The splash of venom from the screen is all but tangible. But compared to the silent chat window, to the still agonizingly clear mental image of Jack’s eyes and voice devoid of all emotion – god, Rhys would take _actual_ venom being thrown in his face, any day of the week.

_Atlas1: So what was the deal about?_

_HJack69: procurement contract for opportunity_

_HJack69: sucks that the place got abandoned_

_HJack69: hah_

_HJack69: unintended_

The small fit of nervous laughter that overtakes Rhys is the farthest thing from easy or comfortable, and still light years’ worth of improvement on before. His brain is still giddy with relief, so it has next to zero input on his next message as it travels from his fingers to the keyboard.

_Atlas1: Especially after you’ve gone to such lengths for it._

(He should be heading to the landing pad about now. Not sitting here wishing he could see Jack’s face right now, just to know if his stupid joke landed at all, if it managed to leave an extra crack in the ice wall that, for all of Jack’s unexpected grace to continue the conversation, is still hovering between them.)

_HJack69: yeah, that was one hard-won contract_

Of all the possible reactions to a boner joke, feeling a small bloom of warmth in one’s chest falls somewhere between ‘very unlikely’ and ‘utterly ridiculous’. And yet. 

Rhys lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, as he lets his fingers fly across the keyboard. 

_Atlas1: But mutually beneficial, I assume?_

(He’s officially two minutes late now, and he doesn’t care.)

_HJack69: ultimately, outstanding matters were resolved on both sides_

_Atlas1: I kind of want to log in just to high-five you right now._

_HJack69: hold that thought_

_HJack69: you got a shuttle to catch_

_Atlas1: To be continued._

_HJack69: sure, sure_

_HJack69: provided you don’t blow things at maliwan_

By the time Rhys reaches the roof, having all but sprinted to the elevator, the mixture of amusement, relief and disgust must still be visible in his face, but the shuttle pilot in a Maliwan uniform passes no comment on his appearance or the fact that he is five– no, six minutes late now, and makes no conversation save a brief greeting and a polite request to fasten his seatbelt.

The shuttle is way into the stratosphere when Rhys’s stomach gives a sharp, hard lurch. The g’s are responsible for some of it. But mostly, it’s the realization that he’s left the folder with the negotiation briefs on his desk.

* * *

A guinea pig floats past Jack’s face, short chubby legs lazily treading air. Short hair, tortoiseshell – gotta be one of the Veronicas. No, wait. Were the Veronicas Dalmatian?

No, of course not, a quick dip into the database confirms. The Dalmatian ones are Dahlias. But the fact that Jack had to actually cross-reference the listing suggests that forty-five is probably the most he can keep track of.

If he got rid of the model of the solar system currently spinning away somewhere overhead, that’d probably free up the virtual memory for another few dozen. But the purpose of this experiment wasn’t to see how many semi-autonomous critter bots Jack could spawn in and run in the background. It was to strain his processing capacity, stretch it thin enough that he could still _calculate_ and even _reason_ , but not necessarily _think_.

Fortunately, thinking, the human kind of thinking, being vague and fuzzy and unpredictable, always comes with a huge processing overhead – which means that even a single moderate-scale task, like maintaining a large space window with a realistic starscape, was enough to interfere with the recounting and re-living of Jack’s-but-not-this-Jack’s memories.

_[a private memorial service for Honora ‘Honey’ Jakobs, the only people in attendance her widower John and her daughter Angel]_

Although interference wasn’t enough to block them out entirely – 

_[a larger-scale family memorial on Eden-6, which Jack did not attend because, his lies to Montgomery notwithstanding, he wasn’t going to a double funeral for his actually dead wife and his still-living daughter]_

_–_ hence the model of the solar system that Pandora is a part of, complete with moons and asteroids. Launching everything on the correct course and keeping orbits from decaying, bodies from crashing into each other, took some time and effort and a few attempts. But once the whole thing was spinning properly, some processing capacity got freed up again, just enough in which to hypothesize– 

_[a vision of the past in which John/Jack/either/both, took Angel to her grandparents instead of a siren control chamber]_

– and theorize– 

_[a vision of the present in which his daughter would be alive and well on Eden-6 right now]_

– hence the small army of semi-autonomous digital guinea pigs, with the naming convention based on color and hair length, and a basic pathfinding routine set to ignore the simulated gravity: not to complicate the experiment further, but simply to free up some space on the floor.

Now, sitting on the couch, Jack observes the movement of the solar system up in the not-ceiling and the paths taken by the forty-five critters around the simulated space. The former is perfectly predictable, as intended. The latter, almost, but not fully _un_ predictable: after a long enough observation, certain patterns begin to emerge. The pathfinding algorithm can stand some tweaking.

Jack’s halfway through tossing a couple of randomly generated changes into the guinea pigs’ pathing routines when the chat screen appears in front of him. He can’t read the message immediately; it takes him a moment to understand why; then he sweeps a pair of long-haired Lexys to the side.

_Atlas1: Crushed. It._

Around Jack, a handful of the digital guineas discorporate back into their database as the message gets connected to the minimum necessary context– 

_[Rhys]_

–which snags on a thread that pulls a lever that opens a floodgate– 

_[the Maliwan deal; it went well]_

–and the gear shift of Jack’s mind slides from _process and calculate_ back into _acknowledge and think–_

_[he’s in a good mood, and he’s coming down to talk about the deal]_

–and now, between all the ones and zeroes that Jack’s made of, there’s actually some room for, well, _Jack_ again. The change of state from ‘persistently AI’ to ‘tentatively human’ is practically seamless, save for miniature celestial objects and digital guinea pigs falling softly all around the simulated room.

Jack holds out a hand to catch one of the Veronicas, who is rather invested in chewing on a model asteroid. He lets a smile into the corner of his mouth as he nods at the screen.

_HJack69: attaboy_

_HJack69: get down here and tell me everything_

By the time Rhys materializes in the sim, Jack’s erased most of the traces of his afternoon, aside from the space window. He keeps that floating to the side of the seating area, but allows the starscape in it to cycle through what is, for all intents and purposes, a high-definition screensaver rather than a realistic recreation of the view. That’s still enough to earn a delighted ‘ooh, _nice!_ ’ from the kid as he all but bounces towards the grey armchair that by now has been firmly established as his.

(Jack wonders if Rhys has noticed the few bits of dark red detail he’s added to the chair design since last time.)

“Spare no detail,” Jack tells Rhys, and Rhys really doesn’t. He talks and talks and talks, recounting every detail of the trip from the shuttle ride to the reception on the Maliwan ship, to the undrinkable coffee served in the waiting area (“before you say anything, I scanned it for drugs or toxins before taking what turned out to be my first and last sip”), to the ridiculous suit Katagawa Jr. was wearing (“there’s paying homage to corporate colors, and there’s looking like an _actual_ clown”), to the conference room that was the site of Rhys’s triumph.

Rhys talks and smiles and laughs. He won’t stop gesturing, or sit still for more than five seconds at a time. His eyes are ablaze, his face aglow. And Jack, sitting across from him, watches and listens, amusement giving way to fascination that borders on enrapturement. Watches Rhys as he basks, unabashed, in his own victory. 

Triumphant.

Brilliant. 

Beautiful.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Rhys snaps his fingers, leaning forward. “Remember that bluff you said I should do, you know, the bit about Atlas launching a new elemental line using the _Syntegrate_ tech?”

“Yeah?” Jack grins. “Did it work?”

“Well…” Rhys pauses theatrically, screws up his face for a moment like he’s trying to remember. “If by ‘did it work’ you mean, ‘did it nearly make Katagawa cry all over the freaking conference table’... Then, yeah. It worked.”

“Hah! Nicely done, Atlas.”

“Yeah.” Rhys preens. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“So did you get him to sign for a four-year license?”

“No.” Rhys holds Jack’s gaze, a devious smirk playing on his lips. “I got him for five.” Another beat. “And a half.”

“ _Damn_ , Rhysie!” Jack slaps both his hands down on the armrests of his chair. “I could freaking _kiss_ you right now.”

By the time Jack hears the words leave his mouth, it’s already too late to stop them. Rhys’s expression freezes for a split second, as if the simulation just gave the tiniest of hiccups.

(Oh, fuck.)

Jack knows he has exactly one second to back out of this, break the tension, turn everything into a joke or a backhanded compliment, or otherwise murder the moment. Maybe two seconds. Three, tops.

For one, two, three seconds, Jack says and does nothing. Until Rhys speaks, eyes still trained on Jack’s.

“You think?” 

(Oh, _fuck_.)

“Yeah,” Jack says, hearing his own voice dip lower. “If you’d be into that.”

“Yeah,” Rhys echoes, voice equally breathy and breathless. “I would.”

(Oh, FUCK.)

Jack’s on his feet, and Rhys is on his, and it takes each of them exactly one step until they’re face to face. Then Jack’s hand is on Rhys’s chin, flushed skin and warm pulse under his fingers.

“Jack–” Rhys’s lips form the shape of the word, if not the sound. Then Jack kisses him, ‘cause whatever else Rhys has to say can wait, ‘cause the time for graceful backing-out has passed, ‘cause unless Rhys actually shoves him away right now, Rhys is getting kissed, end of discussion.

Rhys doesn’t shove him away. 

His lips are just as soft as Jack imagined they would be, but warmer. He sighs softly into Jack’s mouth, and the sound travels through Jack, head to toe and then back up, to Jack’s own lips, mixes with his own breath as he exhales into the kiss. 

Jack lets his finger trace the line of Rhys’s jaw, trail up the side of his cheek. Lingers at Rhys’s cheekbone while feeling warm breath on his skin for a few more seconds, before pulling back, pulling away, letting go, stepping back.

He studies Rhys’s face, watches him blink slowly, draw a breath through his lips, still parted from the kiss, and all Jack wants right now is to dive right back in, get another, deeper taste of Rhys’s mouth, put his hands first into Rhys’s hair and then also everywhere and– No, he’s not going to do any of that. 

(He shouldn’t have done even this part.)

“So, uh…” Jack asks, after Rhys is still quiet a moment later. “Any more highlights you wanna share?”

“I…” Rhys’s eyes dart around the room, then settle on something behind Jack and off to the side. A chuckle escapes his mouth. “Hah... Okay, well, there _is_ one thing I wasn’t gonna tell you about.”

“Oh shit.” Jack takes a step back. “Does it involve Katagawa?”

“What– Ew, no!” Horror and disgust briefly chase each other across Rhys’s face, before giving way to an awkward smile. “I wasn’t gonna tell you that I actually didn’t bring any of my paperwork.”

“You _what_?” Jack barks out a laugh, letting himself fall into his armchair. Rhys runs his hand through his hair as he settles back into his.

“Yeah. Left the whole file on my desk. Only remembered about it in the shuttle. I had digital copies of everything on here, of course–” Rhys gives a light tap on his cybernetic port– “but I’d sound like a robot if I kept the HUD on the whole time. So I did most of it from memory. Except, of course…” He snaps his metal fingers, gives a flourish of the cybernetic palm. “It helps when you can literally snap visual aids into existence.”

Jack gives a low whistle as he watches a dozen holo charts, some of them animated, appear in the air one after another.

“ _Sweet!_ You didn’t use to have that feature, did you?”

“Yeah, this is new. The old arm could do one screen, just about. And definitely nothing as fancy as…” Rhys hooks a finger over a data point in one of the floating charts, pulls it forward from the otherwise 2D graph, makes a small table’s worth of figures explode out of it with a flick of his wrist, then closes his fist to make the whole chart disappear.

“Well, how about that.” Jack nods appreciatively. “Hey, this reminds me. Remember when you said one day you’d let me take a closer look at the upgrades?”

“If I recall correctly…” Rhys sets the metal palm down on his knee. “I said ‘maybe’.”

“And if _I_ recall correctly…” Jack lets his eyes travel between Rhys’s eyes and hand, then back. “You wanted me to ask nicely. Well, I did just kiss you, like, less than two minutes ago. How much nicer do you want it?” 

(Because if there are specific requirements, Jack suspects he’ll be willing to accommodate.)

Jack doesn’t miss what mentioning the kiss does to Rhys’s face. Even through the layers of the earlier victorious glow that Rhys is still wrapped in, there’s a momentary flash of panic, a very specific flavor of it. Behind the brown and gold of Rhys’s eyes, Jack can see the frenetic teleprompter spelling out the same message that is echoing at the back of Jack’s mind, a frantic staccato of _oh fuck what did I do – oh fuck what did I do – oh fuck what did I do_

Still. Rhys does meet his eye.

“Well. You could say ‘please’.”

(Oh. Fuck.)

Jack swallows and lets a slow smile spread over his face as the half-panicked, half-disparaging voice at the back of his head fades to a dull hum. Jack expects it’ll be back with a vengeance. But Jack also expects that by that time, it will have a lot more to complain about.

“ _Please_.”

After (so very transparently) pretending to consider it for a few seconds, Rhys gives a nod, sits up straighter in his chair and shrugs off his blazer. The grey fabric slips down his shoulders, leaving Rhys in a black button-up which, in addition to the customary open collar, has barely any sleeves at all.

“Oh damn,” Jack mutters, following the blue lines of Rhys’s tattoo: spilling from under the capped shirt sleeve, weaving their way to his wrist. “That’s a lot more ink than I was expecting.”

“I think you’re looking at the wrong arm,” Rhys comments.

“Well, it’s not my fault you’re running a ‘buy one, get one free’ promotion here, cupcake.” Jack grins and motions Rhys’s chair to move forward until their knees are touching, then gives it a slight spin till Rhys is facing sideways.

With Rhys’s cyber arm resting palm up on the armrest, Jack finally gets his first proper look at the tech. He runs his hand all the way from the shoulder pad to the tips of Rhys’s metal fingers, enjoying the feel of the metal surface: a more muted yellow than before, burnished rather than painted, smooth but grippy. He tests the range of motion on the fingers and the wrist, each joint moving all but soundlessly (the few barely-detectable sounds are suffused with the pleasing aural ambience of strong mechanisms running smoothly). He hovers his finger over the metal palm, shoots Rhys a questioning look and gets a nod in return, before experimenting with the display: Jack’s first gesture, way too clumsy for the delicate touch interface, produces a slew of miscellaneous holo screens and earns a chuckle from Rhys; subsequent, more careful, touches eventually allow Jack to semi-successfully bring up the home interface.

Once Jack is done with the palm, he directs his attention to the panel on the inside of Rhys’s forearm, a few square inches of holo interface that comes to life at Rhys’s bidding. Most of the features there aren’t much use in the simulation, but Rhys is happy to indulge Jack’s curiosity and describe the many types of tech at Atlas (and beyond) that he could patch into and manipulate with the help of the panel’s controls – without positively identifying any single specific control as tied to any specific equipment (Jack smiles to himself: _good job, kid, this is the kinda thing you wanna keep confidential_ ).

Jack then walks his fingers farther up Rhys’s forearm and examines the elbow joint, before moving up to the shoulder mount. He shifts the shirt sleeve farther up, over Rhys’s shoulder, marvels at how seamlessly the cybernetic limb connects to the metal plate fused to Rhys’s flesh and bone. Then his eyes catch on what little he can see of the exposed skin around the area. Although calling it skin is kind of a stretch. Every bit of flesh Jack can see next to the metal shoulder mount is made up entirely of scar tissue.

Some scarring is only to be expected of course, the result of the original surgery to replace Rhys’s biological arm with the cybernetics. But the scars Jack can see right now don’t look surgical. Way too jagged. Way too new.

As Jack lowers the black shirt sleeve back into place and moves back down the arm, he showers Rhys with more questions about the hardware and software. Yes, much like the new ECHO eye, the backbone of this tech was Hyperion, but newer and more advanced than Rhys’s original model. Yes, Rhys has made a number of modifications over the last few years. No, there isn’t a single sensor, wire or screw in there that was manufactured by a competitor. The current state of the arm is all Hyperion and Atlas, one-hundred percent of it.

That’s… pleasing, somehow, Jack thinks as he slides his hand up past the elbow joint again, keeping a safe distance from the shoulder this time.

A few inches above the elbow, his fingers catch on a shallow dip in the otherwise smooth metal. A press panel, an inch by an inch-and-a-half.

“Ooh, nice and subtle, this one,” Jack says, letting his fingertip skirt the minute edge of the panel. So subtle, in fact, that he missed it on his first pass. “What does this baby do?”

For the first time in the many, many minutes, Rhys doesn’t fire off the answer. He stays quiet for a couple of seconds, long enough for Jack to look up.

Which means that when the answer does finally come, Jack’s looking Rhys right in the face.

“Manual release.”

“Oh.” The upside of being in a simulation, thinks Jack, is that you don’t actually need to breathe here. Which means that even if you feel like a knife has been driven between your ribs, puncturing your lungs and slicing the breath right out of you, it really shouldn’t make any difference in your day.

“I mean…” Rhys says, slowly. “It comes off via software trigger by default. But.”

“Backup plan.” Jack nods. “Good thinking.”

Seconds pass, with the two of them just looking at each other. It’s not often that Jack doesn’t know what to do. It’s even less frequently that Jack doesn’t know what to say.

(Well. He has _one_ idea of what he could say. But where do you even start with _that_? More importantly, once you’ve started with that one, once you’ve opened _that_ up… Where do you _stop_? Is there anywhere _to_ stop after that? Is there _anything_ _at all_ after that?)

Silence wafts through the air, ghostly and gossamer, swallowing up every moment of this evening one by one by one, until there’s nothing left but the silence, until the very air between them is heavy and brittle.

 _Say something, Rhys_ , Jack pleads, silently. At this point, he doesn’t even care what. Anything, just about anything is better than this.

Almost. Because when Rhys finally lets the silence fall to the floor and shatter, the space between them is briefly filled with some choice lines from the all-time classic _Oh No, Is That The Time_. Jack plays along, going with his own favorites from _Get Some Sleep, You Have Work Tomorrow_ , ‘cause what the fuck else is he supposed to do. The only upside of this painfully awkward scene is that by the time it’s over and Rhys finally discorporates with a hasty ‘good night’, Jack is almost happy to see him go.

Almost.

 _Well,_ thinks Jack as he stares at the space window, still in ‘starry screensaver’ mode. _That went… yeah._

Still. This is a simulation. Which means that the invisible knife, still stuck in his ribcage from earlier, blade twisting and turning and prying open rib after rib after rib until his entire chest cavity is a bloody mess of shattered bone and punctured flesh – that’s not real, either. No matter how real it may feel right now.

Jack pulls up the model of the solar system again, takes a few attempts to put it together correctly. Then lets the model planets and moons and asteroids fall to the floor and discorporate out of sight. He looks at the guinea pig database next, and gives up after five seconds. 

Jack spends some time watching the fake stars outside the space window. A single tortoiseshell Veronica wanders around the legs of his chair, making small snuffling noises.


	15. Letter and Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaughn frowns as he leans closer to the camera. “I can tell you have something on your mind. Spill, bro. Come _on,_ you can tell me.”
> 
>  _No,_ thinks Rhys. He can’t. He really, really can’t.
> 
> Except he _needs_ to tell someone, or his head will simply explode, and this is why he called Vaughn in the first place. 
> 
> “Okay…” Rhys chews on his lip. “Well. There’s… There’s this guy.”
> 
> * * *

“...and that’s why,” Vaughn says, raising his finger dramatically (the effect is somewhat diminished by half of his hand disappearing from view as it goes outside of the holo screen bounds), “the Sawtooth gang will never bother the Children of Helios again.”

“Bro… That was bad _ass_.” Rhys smiles at the screen, while desperately hoping that Vaughn isn’t going to ask what his favorite part was, or otherwise require Rhys to demonstrate his grasp on the story. It’s not that Vaughn’s story was long and convoluted and, given the amount of shootouts in it, still surprisingly boring– okay, it was all that, but listening to each other’s long and boring stories is part and parcel of a friendship as long as theirs, and Vaughn has done his own share of listening over the years. And it’s not that he’s not interested in the inter-clan politics of Pandora’s bandits– okay, ‘interested’ is a strong word, but it _is_ unquestionably useful intel from an unquestionably trusted source. And it’s not that he’s been zoning out while in conversation with his best friend for the first time in months– okay, he’s been doing just that, and… god, he’s being a really shitty friend right now, isn’t he?

But he’s had a lot on his mind lately. A _lot_. There’s the procurement snafu about a specific type of _rivet_ of all things; and a string of warranty claims that Rhys would bet any of his limbs that Wilkes from Overlook is responsible for, even if he can’t actually tie them to the bastard; and a small mountain of paperwork for the Maliwan licensing deal that needs double-, triple and quadruple-checking because Rhys will be damned if he lets Katagawa slip anything past him; and… there was something else, wasn’t there? Yes. How about the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, _he kissed Handsome Jack?_

“So what’s new with you?” asks Vaughn. 

“I mean…” Rhys runs his hand through his hair. “Not much, just the usual company business.”

“Well, something must be new, because you’ve been dodging my calls for weeks, and now you hit me up out of the blue.”

“Ah, shit…” Rhys winces. “I’m sorry, bro, I’ve just been…”

“No, no, we’re all busy, I get that. I mean, come on, I should know: I’ve got a whole herd of bullymongs to train now.”

(Bullymongs? Damn, he really should’ve been paying more attention to the story. Rhys makes a mental note to fish for more details from Yvette later.)

“So what is it?” Vaughn continues. “Is the newest addition to Atlas giving you trouble?”

“Uh…” Rhys searches Vaughn’s face for clues as to who the hell he’s talking about, because he’s definitely not talking about Jack, because _for fuck’s sake,_ not everything in six galaxies is about Jack, Rhys.

“I guess we should’ve seen that coming, huh? What with your shared history at Hyperion, and all that.”

“Yeah…” Rhys nods, vaguely.

Vaughn isn’t talking about Jack. Whoever and whatever Vaughn is talking about (even if Rhys is taking an embarrassingly long time to get up to speed), it has nothing to do with Jack. Rhys knows that. Everything in six galaxies _isn’t_ about Jack. Rhys knows that too.

(Then why does everything sound like it is?..)

“So what do you think? Should I dig up my old rolodex and look for another Head of Accounting for you?”

...of course. Rhys wishes the call had no video feed just so he could slap his forehead.

“I don’t think it’s come to that yet,” says Rhys. Which may not be a lie in letter, but is definitely one in spirit, because it implies he’s been having problems with Nadya, while nothing could be farther from the truth. “I’m pretty sure she’s made several heads of departments cry by now, but Accounting looks like something out of a submission for _Business Tomorrow_ ’s Best Organized in the Galaxy, and every piece of paperwork I’ve seen come out of there, I’ve kind of wanted to frame and put on the wall.”

“You probably shouldn’t show off your actual figures like that, bro.”

“It was a figure – heh – of speech. Anyway, Drew, who’s better at this than I am, tells me that the contents are just as immaculate. I’m not going to deny that Nadya’s intimidating as all hell, but I think she’s worth the trouble.”

“Ahh, glad to hear it. And she _is_ kind of terrifying, isn’t she? Did I ever tell you she survived two department-wide airlocking?”

“Wait, what?” Rhys stares at the screen. “When? How?”

“That was before our time. Pretty soon after Handsome Jack took over the company from Tassiter. The way she tells it, things were… pretty chaotic for a while. Whole departments could get vented into space for one person’s mistake. That was how Nadya first became Head of Accounting, you know. She was out to lunch when–” Vaughn mimes an explosion with his hands.

“Okay, she got lucky. That’s one airlocking. How did she survive the next one?”

“Had her desk and chair bolted to the floor, and kept an Oz kit in the drawer.”

“NO.” Rhys shakes his head. “No way that story’s true. That’s gotta be some bullshit she tells to scare the rookies on their first day.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Vaughn shrugs. “But that’s the story. Feel free to go and ask her.”

“I, uh… No. I don’t think I’ll be asking her. But I’ll keep the story in mind.” 

Keep it in mind and ask _Jack_ about it, because ‘promotion through lucky survival followed by survival through brutal ingenuity’ sounds like something interesting enough to have registered on his radar. So if Nadya’s story is true, Rhys would do well to keep a closer eye on her, because that sheer level of badassery makes her a backstabbing risk, CFO material, or both. And if Jack can confirm she’s been lying… well, it doesn’t hurt to have some dirt on a key employee who thinks very highly of themselves.

And it would be great to hear Jack tell some Hyperion stories again. While they sit across from each other in those armchairs that have become a staple of Jack’s virtual space by now, and one of the few things in there he never seems to change. 

(Or maybe they’d sit on the couch this time. Next to each other. Knees, thighs, shoulders almost touching. Actually touching. Maybe Jack would put his arm around him. Maybe–)

“Rhys? Vaughn to Rhys? You still here?”

“Ah. Yeah.” Rhys blinks. “Sorry, must’ve been a connection hiccup.”

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Vaughn frowns as he leans closer to the camera. “I can tell you have something on your mind. Spill, bro. Come _on_ , you can tell me.”

 _No_ _,_ thinks Rhys. He can’t. He really, really can’t.

Except he _needs_ to tell someone, or his head will simply explode, and this is _why_ he called Vaughn in the first place. Because ever since yesterday, Rhys’s mind has been an unending maelstrom of mutually contradictory feelings and desires, elation and panic swirled together like two equally deadly flavors of frozen yoghurt, and even now, he never wants to look at Jack again for as long as he lives, and he also wants to kiss Jack again more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life–

_Well, how about you just log in and keep your eyes closed, huh, cupcake?_

–and now, even though there isn’t a single line of Jack’s code in Rhys’s cybernetics (he knows there isn’t; he’s checked and checked and checked), Jack’s more inside his head than he’s ever been.

“Okay…” Rhys chews on his lip. “Well. There’s… There’s this guy.”

“HAH!” Vaughn leaps to his feet and spends the next five seconds performing what, Rhys surmises from context, has to be a victory dance. 

Rhys sighs. Vaughn’s exclamation alone would’ve been enough to make him regret his decision; being treated to a view of his abs (which have gotten bigger, somehow?) doesn’t make things better in the slightest. And it’s not like Rhys wasn’t expecting this, but he was hoping to get more than two seconds into the story before acute regret set in. He waits, patiently, for Vaughn’s face to reappear on the screen.

“Sorry, bro, it’s just that Yvette and I had a bet going. She said you must’ve gone off the grid because of a work thing, and I said, no, it’s definitely personal. Like, remember every time you started dating someone, back in college? I’d barely see you for weeks, and only then just because we bunked together. God, it’s going to feel so good to take _her_ money for a change! Is it Drew? Tell me it’s Drew. ”

“Whoa, whoa, you might want to wait before you take anyone’s money, okay.” Rhys raises his hands. “It’s not Drew. And I didn’t say anything about _dating_.” 

(Rhys drags his mind back before it can run away imagining what an actual _date with Jack_ might look like, were the very concept not thoroughly moot right now; the ideas that pop into his head before he can shut them down feature either something ridiculously expensive a few solar systems away, or boxes of takeout scattered around the fireplace nook in Jack’s office on Helios; and the worst thing is, he can’t decide which he would like better.)

“But there’s a guy?”

“There _is_ a guy,” Rhys confirms. He chews his lip some more as he chooses his words carefully. “We’re working on some projects together. One of them is for Atlas. The other… well, it’s kind of confidential.”

“Ahh, okay.” Vaughn nods. “No names. I get it. How much _can_ you tell me? Is it someone I know?”

“Someone you know _of_. Me, I’ve had some run-ins with him before over… corporate stuff. There’s definitely a history there. We both did things we’re… not proud of. Well, I’m not proud of my half, at least, and he… Ugh, it’s complicated. But ever since we got back together – professionally! – it’s been going so well. And the past stuff…”

“Water under the bridge?”

“Oh, no. No, definitely not that. Not... yet? Maybe not ever? I don’t know. But… but these days it feels like there _is_ a bridge, you know? A place we could get to, one day? Or maybe I’m just imagining a bridge. Maybe because I… really want there to be a bridge? Oh god, I’m such an idiot.” Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” says Vaughn. ( _If only you knew, bro_ , thinks Rhys. _You’d have no doubt whatsoever_.) “But you sound like, uh, like you’re really into him?”

“God. Fuck. Yes. It’s so stupid, Vaughn. _I’m_ so stupid. But… Argh.” Rhys drags his hands through his hair, lets his head drop to his desk, then looks up at the screen again. “We work so fucking well together. I mean, literally. We get cool shit done when we work together. Also, the guy’s kind of a genius, so watching him work, it’s just… argh, but if that wasn’t bad enough, the more I get to know him, the worse it gets. And there’s definitely… chemistry. And I know it’s a terrible idea, it’s the freaking _worst_ , okay, but–”

“Hey, hey, Rhys, hold up. Do you think you’re being a little dramatic about this? I mean, is it _really_ such a terrible idea?”

_Yes, it fucking is, Vaughn. Because I’m fucking smitten with Handsome Jack. Yes, you heard me right. Handsome. Goddamn. Jack. The guy who I had posters of in my cubicle. The guy who hitched a ride in my cybernetics. The guy who promised me the universe, then turned around and stabbed me in the back, the guy whom I had to fight to the death in the burning ruins of Helios, where I had to literally rip out pieces of myself to survive! The guy whom I kept imprisoned for almost two years, and brought back almost two months ago. That’s the guy I’ve been working with, the guy I made out with yesterday, the guy I’m fucking falling for, okay? Now you tell me – IS it such a terrible idea?_

Rhys presses his lips together to contain the rant that’s bubbling up inside his throat, boiling over, spilling into his mouth, pushing against the inside of his lips. He swallows once, twice, a third time, until he forces the words back down. They settle like a balloon in his chest, small enough he can still just about breathe around it, big enough that he still has to fight for every breath.

“Yes,” Rhys says, eventually. “It’s the worst idea ever. Because he’s dangerous. And I don’t trust him. I don’t know if I ever will. Bridge or no bridge.”

“Hang on. When you say he’s dangerous… Do you mean he’s actually a danger to you?”

At the sight of the concern on Vaughn’s face, Rhys’s chest fills with warmth, and that heavy balloon from earlier doesn’t quite melt away, but it gets a lot easier to breathe around it.

“Vaughn… Bro. No, it’s not like that.”

“Are you sure? Because if that guy’s causing you trouble, I’m coming over to Old Haven with my best fighters _and_ my new bullymongs. I don’t care if you like him or not. No-one messes with my best friend.”

Vaughn’s green-grey eyes look harder under his frown, and the lines of his face, although still soft even under his ‘bandit king’ beard, settle into something that reminds Rhys that his best friend has come a long way since his meek accounting days at Hyperion. 

“I’m fine,” Rhys promises Vaughn with a smile. “I may be stupid about him– about this whole thing, but I’m not that stupid. I have all kinds of precautions in place. My safety is not in question.”

“Okay.” Vaughn’s face relaxes again. “But if he even tries to screw you over, I’m still going to kick his ass.”

Rhys chuckles. “Of course you are.” 

“What, you think I won’t?”

He will, Rhys realizes, the sudden knowledge in his head clear as day and all the more frightening for it. Even if he told him _who_ the guy in question was. Especially if he told him who the guy in question was. Provided the meeting between them could be arranged in a shared physical space, Vaughn _would_ come over here and kick Jack’s ass. For Rhys. Right after he was done kicking _Rhys’s_ ass for being a complete fucking idiot, of course, but that goes without saying.

“I know you will, bro. Thanks.” After so many half-truths he had to tell Vaughn just now, it feels really good to finally say something he means one-hundred percent. Even if he does immediately follow it up with a half-lie. “But I think I’m going to be okay.”

“Uh-huh, good to know.” A new face appears in Rhys’s view, shoving Vaughn off to the side. 

“Yvette! How long have you been listening?” Rhys demands while the two fight to claim equitable shares of the holo screen space.

“Long enough to get sick of the two of you making googly eyes at each other. ‘I love you so much, bro’ – ‘no, bro, I love you more, bro’ – ugh, like I haven’t had to endure years of that in college and then at Hyperion! I want to hear about Mystery Guy.”

“I’m not going to–”

“Yes, you are.” Yvette takes a bite of her sandwich. “Are you forgetting Vaughn isn’t the only one here who’s known you for years? I’ve also seen what you’re like when you date: you’re _dying_ to share all the deets, but you _have_ to play shy, all like ‘oh, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell’, etcetera. Don’t you think we’re all getting too old for this?”

“I mean–”

“That’s what I thought. Now go on, Strongfork, dish. Have you two banged yet?”

“Gahd, Yvette.” Rhys buries his face in his palms. “No, we haven’t.”

“But you’ve done something, right? This isn’t your pining face. This _isn’t_ his pining face, is it, Vaughn?”

“Nope,” Vaughn confirms. “This isn’t his pining face. This is the ‘got somewhere and desperate to get somewhere further’ face.”

“More like ‘desperate to get _some’_ face, am I right?”

“Wrong and wrong. This is my ‘I wish I was dead right now’ face,” Rhys groans, letting the face in question drop down onto his desk again. He needs out of this conversation. Preferably ten seconds ago. He needs to fake a work emergency. Knock the holo screen projector off the desk. Shoot himself in the foot if that’s what it takes. He can’t continue this. He can’t talk about– 

The excitement on Jack’s face as he listened to Rhys recount his victory at Maliwan, the avid enthusiasm in his voice as he showered Rhys with questions and compliments, each making the warm golden glow inside Rhys that much warmer and brighter – until the same glow froze solid for a few deafening silent seconds after Jack’s mention of the kiss, only to shatter and wash over Rhys in an avalanche of sharp, ice-hot pinpricks as Rhys heard his own voice answering.

He can’t talk about–

What it was like seeing Jack’s eyes staring into his from so, _so_ close, moments before their lips touched, and then watching the same eyes study every inch of his cybernetic arm with such singular focus. How Jack’s fingers traced the lines of his face with such unexpected care, and how Rhys thought that’s the most careful Jack could ever be, only to be proven wrong minutes later, as he watched those very same fingers tinker with the touch interface of his palm display, moving with such precision and frightening delicacy, while his metal hand rested in Jack’s broad palm.

He can’t talk about any of it. He needs to shut this down. He needs to get out. Whatever it takes. He needs to get out of this before it’s too late.

_(Still talking about the conversation, kiddo, or?..)_

Rhys squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t help in the slightest. He lifts his face off the desk, meets Vaughn and Yvette’s eager stares, and opens his mouth to put a stop to this.

Because that’s what he’s doing. He’s putting a stop to this.

Because this has gone too far, and he’s not going to talk about it, and he’s shutting this whole thing down. Right fucking now.

Definitively. Conclusively. Irrevocably. 

“We kissed.”


	16. Full Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jack. I made you a promise. I’m keeping it.”
> 
> “Why should I believe you?” Jack sneers.
> 
> “Did you really just ask me that?” Rhys takes a step forward; a goddamn calculated move to make Jack back down, because the little shit knows Jack hates being walked through. Jack moves back a fraction of a step, just enough so none of his pixels are clipping into Rhys.
> 
> “Yeah. Yeah, I fucking did. I’ll ask you again. Now that I know how you really feel, why should I believe a word you say, pumpkin?”
> 
> * * *

Some time in the past, less than five years and at least three lifetimes ago, Hyperion CEO Handsome Jack and Megan Clarke, the best damn PA in six galaxies, lay in bed in his penthouse at the top of the taller spire of Helios, looking at the diamond-studded cloak of stars billowing outside the ceiling window.

_“Jack?”_

_“Mhh?”_

_“Can I confess something to you?”_

_“If you’ve been embezzling, I haven’t noticed, which means it couldn’t have been more than a million a month, which means I don’t give a– OW! Did you just fucking bite me, Megs? We agreed that you don’t get to do that.”_

_“One, we didn’t agree on anything. You just said that I can’t do that. I never countersigned that demand.”_

_“Freaking lawyers…” Jack lets his fingers tangle in Meg’s dark hair, still mussed up from earlier. “Anyway, moot point, counselor. Any demand I make IS law on this space station.”_

_“And two–” Meg flicks her tongue over the fresh bite on Jack’s shoulder. “You promised you’d never insult me by suggesting I’m an idiot. Embezzling from you would make me one.”_

_“Hmm, okay, fine. So what’s the confession?”_

_“Remember that night in my office? When you got all jealous because I wouldn’t let you[murder Felicia–](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778618/chapters/59917024)”_

_“Oh god, your ficus has a name now?”_

_“Of course she does. Anyway, after that, do you remember how I went about earning your forgiveness?”_

_“Yeah. You told me that little fantasy of yours. About how you imagined we were gonna do it for the first time.”_

_“That’s what I’m getting at. I… may have been lying about that.”_

_“What?” Jack lifts himself on his elbow, letting Meg’s head slide off his shoulder and onto the bed, leans over so his face hovers directly above hers. “All that stuff you said you wanted to do in my office, all the stuff with the desk and the chair, you’re saying you made it up on the spot? You’d never imagined it before then?”_

_“Oh, of course I had,” Meg whispers up at him. “All the stuff I wanted to do in your office. All the stuff with the desk. And the chair. And–” Her teeth catch her lower lip as she smiles– “let’s not be forgetting the window. I’d imagined all of it, more times than I could count. Usually after a day spent working side by side with you. Once I was back home. In my bedroom.”_

_“Okay, Megan…” Jack grins, leaning his mouth to her ear. “Right after you’re done with your confession, you owe me some show-and-tell.”_

_“I’d say it will be my pleasure, but–” Meg’s speech gets cut off by a gasp, which then dissolves into breathy laughter. “Anyway,” she continues once Jack has lifted himself back up to look at her again. “I’ve had all those fantasies, of course. But if I tried to imagine how we might_ actually _end up in bed together, I would always settle on something like tonight.”_

_“Seriously? That’s what you thought it was gonna take? The two of us getting drunk at a fancy party?”_

_“No. I thought it was going to take one of those shining moments, you know? When you’re on top of the world, you’re walking on air, you can do no wrong. That’s what I thought might tip us over the edge. That kind of excitement, that kind of high. One of those moments when everything is… gold. A couple of drinks wouldn’t hurt, of course, but the trigger, the catalyst would have to be–”_

_“A win.” Jack smiles, the golden dream described by Meg reawakening the fresh memories of the night’s triumphs._

_“Yeah.” Meg nods. “That’s what I thought it would take. Not just any win, though.”_

_“Winning together.” Jack chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d do it.”_

In the less than five years and at least three lifetimes since he’d lay in bed and watched the stars with Meg curled up against his side, Jack’s done a whole lot of losing, a fair share of dying, and (or so he’s been hoping), a moderate chunk of learning from his fuck-ups. But some things clearly haven’t changed, haven’t been lost during his rebirth as an AI, haven’t been forgotten during his stay inside the void. 

Case in point: if his latest encounter with Rhys is anything to judge by, Jack’s still not immune to the high of victory. He’s just as likely as before to have his head turned by one of those golden moments of shared triumph, just as likely to let it tip things over the edge even when he knows it’s a terrible, terrible idea.

Anyway, that’s over and done with. Chalk it up to your latest learning experience, Jack. And don’t let your guard down like this again.

‘Cause nothing good can come from letting one’s guard down. Just ask Rhys.

* * *

_Atlas1: Busy?_

_HJack69: ~~never too busy for you, cupca– goddammit jack, are you forgetting we’re done with this shit~~_

_HJack69: ~~yeah, busy working on your shit, not like i got anything else to do in here~~_

_HJack69: ~~clearly nowhere as busy as you ‘cause it’s been two fucking days~~_

_HJack69: ‘sup, kiddo?_

_Atlas1: I wanted to show you something. Just got some new gear for R &D. Interested?_

_HJack69: sure_

_HJack69: spawn in it_

_HJack69: i’m guessing you’ve coded in the specs already?_

_Atlas1: I haven’t, actually. I thought maybe you’d like to come topside this time?_

* * *

Leaning against the wall in what he hopes is a believably casual manner, Rhys watches Jack make his way around the new ballistics lab. It’s weird, seeing him as a hologram again, even a higher-quality one than before: more opaque and with less flickering around the edges. (The state-of-the-art external projector hooked up to Jack’s computer is to thank for that; it would be a peaceful day on Pandora before Rhys would plug Jack into his own cybernetics again.)

Some of the weirdness has to be the fact that even in this intangible form, Jack’s still moving around objects rather than through them. Which makes Rhys wonder if Jack himself has noticed that, and whether he’s doing it unconsciously because he’s gotten so used to the VR. Or if he’s doing it on purpose. Pretending he’s got a body, even if the only body he can even pretend to have is an illusion. Faking a fake. Because a fake is still the closest thing Jack has got to the real thing. Which is still better than what Jack really has. Which is nothing at all.

Rhys watches as Jack coos appreciatively at the digital wireframe scanner, nods to himself while trailing a blue fingertip along the lines of spec on a holo screen, reaches to press a button… and pulls his hand away just before his finger goes right through the surface. A quiet chuckle and a quieter, muttered ‘ah, right’ combine to send a short, sharp stab through Rhys’s chest, an icy dart that melts away immediately after hitting home, but leaves a small hole with bleeding edges. It’s not like he’s _forgotten_ Jack doesn’t have a body: the deal they’ve got going is pretty damn hard to ignore. But he’s gotten so accustomed to seeing Jack in the VR, as real as anything else around him, that perhaps he hasn’t been fully _acknowledging_ Jack’s current situation. 

What it really means. How much it must suck. And… how sorry it makes him feel for Jack.

There’s a part of Rhys that wants to switch the projector off, log into the VR so he and Jack can be in the same quasi-physical space again, and do something patently ridiculous. Like tell Jack he’s sorry: neither an apology nor a pity kind of sorry, but a general-purpose 'damn, this really fucking sucks'. Tell Jack he’s going to help him. That Rhys _wants_ to help him, deal or no deal. And then, because you might as well max out on the ridiculousness scale, give Jack a hug.

Rhys isn’t about to do any of that, of course. And not just because he can imagine the look on Jack's face if he were to try. But because right next to the part of Rhys taken by this insane idea is another part of him and another wish. It also starts with switching the projector off. But for the next step, instead of logging into the VR, Rhys wants to run from the room screaming.

Because he _has_ gotten accustomed to seeing Jack in the VR, and it’s _that_ Jack – in full color, full opacity, and an approximation of corporeality – that Rhys has come to think of as… real. Or real enough, anyway, but definitely separate from... _this_ Jack. Jack the hologram, his form semi-translucent with a bit of flickering still left around the edges, his voice distorted by the projector just so. Jack the digital ghost, stripped of the trappings of VR, with none of the extra code to helpfully blanket him in a pleasing illusion of corporeality, reality, humanity. 

And _this_ Jack… Rhys remembers what happened the last time he saw _this_ Jack. He remembers what _this_ Jack did the last time Rhys saw him. Except– 

Willing his hand not to shake, Rhys takes a sip from his coffee mug. The hot sweet drink dissolves some of the cold bitter lump in his throat, but does nothing to wash away an understanding that isn’t new, but is clearer than ever before.

Except there’s no _this_ Jack or _that_ Jack, is there? There's only ever been the one.

The Jack inside the VR and the holo Jack who’s currently humming to himself as he examines the assorted digistructors; the Jack he’s been working with for the past weeks and the Jack whom he’d let into his cybernetics back on Pandora; the Jack he’s become tentative friends with and the Jack who betrayed him back on Helios... 

They’re all the same Jack.

The Jack whose fingers cradled Rhys’s face as he kissed him. The Jack who made Rhys’s fingers wrap around his own throat to squeeze the life out of him. 

They’re also the same Jack.

The Jack who looked like he’d been punched in the chest when Rhys told him about the manual release button is the same Jack who’s the reason that button exists in the first place.

_There's only one Jack_. 

And it’s not like Rhys didn’t know this. But maybe he didn’t _know_. Because at no point since bringing Jack back has Rhys felt quite so scared of him. Until now.

Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe he should’ve been scared of Jack this whole time.

(Maybe he should be more scared of Jack now than he’s ever been.)

Rhys takes another sip of coffee, hoping that Jack is too preoccupied with the shiny new tech to even look his way. Because his attempts to stop his hands from shaking aren’t working so great at the moment.

Because there's only one Jack, and Rhys is looking at him right now, and Rhys wants to hold him and promise him every help he can give him, and to run from the room and never see him again, and to kiss him and touch him and lie by his side, and to throw his hard drive all the way into the Caustic Caverns.

He _should_ be more scared of Jack now than he’s ever been. He _is_ more scared of Jack now than he’s ever been.

But that doesn’t change a fucking thing.

(He is so incredibly, tremendously, unbelievably fucked.)

“Well, _that’s_ bullshit,” Jack’s voice intrudes into Rhys’s thoughts. He flinches; he tells himself it’s _only_ because of the mismatch between the source of the sound and the location of Jack’s projection.

“Huh?”

“No way that thing–” Jack jerks a thumb at the test firing area– “can contain all the megatons it’s promising to. You realize that’s almost as much as a full moonshot’s worth of power, right? Second-gen, maybe, which wasn’t a patch on the original, but still. No way those force fields could withstand that.”

“Well, we can’t exactly check that–” Rhys mutters. It takes him a second to hear himself. Once he does, there’s literally nothing he can do except look up from his coffee mug and meet Jack’s eye.

For all of Jack’s current form being half-translucent, his expression is less penetrable than a steel wall as he looks at Rhys. Then, a few seconds later, a shadow flickers behind his eyes, a crease begins to form on his forehead, and Rhys feels his stomach drop into a bottomless pit. _Here we go._

He opens his mouth, willing his lungs to rally for long enough to deliver a pointless apology he’s still stringing together – but the words die on his lips at the next sound that comes from Jack.

A chuckle.

Any other time, Rhys would think his ears are deceiving him. But the holo projector is funneling Jack’s voice straight into the earpiece in his left ear. There can be no mistaking what he heard. 

“Yeah, we can’t, can we?” Another chuckle. Rhys is _not_ imagining it. Just as he’s not imagining Jack’s eyes softening just a fraction. “That’s too bad. Would’ve made for a fun little demonstration.”

“Did you…” Rhys clears his throat. “Did you just say you’d like to moonshot me from orbit?”

“Maybe. But if your gear’s as good as you claim it is, you should be just fine. Put your money where your mouth is, you know?”

“I always put my money where my mouth is, but it’s not my mouth in question here!” Rhys protests with about three hundred percent more commitment than he’s actually feeling right now. Anything to move the conversation away from the subject of Helios as fast as possible; anything to hide his sheer _relief_ that a mere mention of Helios hasn’t made Jack try to holo-strangle him or storm off back into the VR. “These force field generators aren’t Atlas made, okay?”

“Well, there’s your mistake right there, kiddo. Should’ve done this stuff in-house instead of going to– woof, _Torgue_? That’s a ballsy choice if I ever saw one.”

“Hey, hey, I’m going to stop you right there, Jack.” Rhys frowns. Fake protest or not, Jack seems to have gone from slagging off his equipment to slagging off his judgment, and that won’t do. “I’ve done my homework. Whatever you’ve got to say about Torgue weapons, their containment fields are second to none. The fact that their whole company hasn’t been blown clean off the face of Pandora is proof of that.”

“Oh, no, no, for once I’m not knocking their _product_. But you should see the fine print on their third-party liability clause. Short version, anything goes wrong in here, you’re not gonna get a single freaking dollar in damages. So whoever you’re gonna have working in this lab had better know their shit.”

“Well.” Not even the best containment field, by Torgue or otherwise, would stop the smile from crawling onto Rhys’s face. “Then it’s a good thing we both know our shit, Jack.”

“You sneaky little bastard…” Jack’s grin lights up his entire face in a way that Rhys didn’t think possible in his current form, makes his very projection look more… solid, somehow. Still a hologram, yes. But maybe no longer a ghost. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“I wanted your honest opinion of the tech. Had I introduced this place as ‘your future lab’, you would’ve crapped all over it just to be a dick.”

“I–” Jack’s laughter floods the earpiece. “Okay, you got me, I totally would’ve. But seriously, if you and I are gonna be working here, it’s gonna be the smart targeting project, isn’t it? In which case I’ve got some specific demands.”

“Of course you do.” Rhys rolls his eyes dutifully. “Let me go grab an ECHO tablet.”

Once Rhys is outside of the new ballistics lab and safely beyond the roaming range of Jack’s hologram, he leans against a wall and just breathes for a while.

This hasn’t gone as badly as it could have gone. 

That is to say, it’s gone much worse than he’d expected. He _thought_ that meeting Jack out in the real world, on a plane where he wouldn’t be tempted into any physical contact with him, would’ve made things easier. He didn’t think that seeing Jack as a hologram would cause so many carefully-constructed walls in his mind to come crashing down, letting in… so many things. Too many things.

In retrospect– _No, don’t even go there, Rhys_. If he starts thinking about everything he should’ve done differently in retrospect, he’s going to be here all week.

Bottom line, it _has_ gone much worse than he’d expected. But nowhere as worse as it could have.

He’s still pretty fucked, though. And he has no idea what he’s going to do next time he meets Jack on a plane where physical contact _is_ an option. Even now, the deluge of feelings and realizations still reaches all the way up to Rhys’s chin, threatening to drown him if he lowers himself from his tiptoes even for a moment. But he can keep his head above water. For now. 

For how long can he stay on his toes like this? That’s not a useful line of thinking, either.

_Okay_ , Rhys tells himself. If he’s going to keep whatever remains of his sanity, he can neither replay alternative pasts nor worry about hypothetical futures. He needs to focus on one thing at a time.

Right now, this means getting a fresh cup of coffee and finding an ECHO tablet to take down Jack’s demands for the lab.

After that? Who the hell knows.

* * *

Jack observes as Rhys takes a pair of titanium tweezers to the halfway-dismantled Singularity grenade on the mount in front of him.

“Watch yourself, cupcake. This is the hard bit.” 

“I got this,” Rhys responds, teasing apart the shielding around the eridium core layer by delicate layer. 

“You sure? ‘Cause so far, this is exactly where you’ve screwed up four times out of four so far.”

“I _said_ I got this. Shut up and get out of my light.” 

“Get out of your light? I’m a freaking hologram, cupcake. The light goes right through me.”

“Get out of my _face_ , then. I’ll stop screwing up once you stop breathing down my neck.” Rhys huffs, blowing a stray bit of hair out of his face.

Jack watches the progress. With the last layer of carbon fiber stripped away, Rhys begins to pry loose the metal part of the shielding: a lattice of steel-aluminum layers on top of the internal casing made of a stable eridium-aluminum alloy. The alloy is stable at room conditions; the pre-treated eridium inside is not; which is why it’s crucial that the last layer remains inta– ah, shit.

“Hey–”

“I swear to god, Jack, I’ve had it up to here with your smartass remarks. Can the commentary.” 

“Okay.” Jack shrugs, watching a trickle of fine purple mist leak from the tiny breach on the far side of the grenade core, where Rhys’s last pass with the tweezers has left a groove in the innermost layer of the casing. There’s really no point continuing now that the untreated eridium inside has been exposed to air, and Rhys might as well toss the grenade into the containment area to join the other ruined four. Jack _would_ point it out, but hey, Mr. Weapons Expert has had it up to here with his remarks, has he? If the kid says he knows what he’s doing, he can keep at it till the thing literally blows up in his face.

(The grenades have been stripped of the payload before they started work, so it’s not like he can hurt himself. Not much, anyway.)

“Almost there…” Rhys mutters. 

_You got that one right_ , Jack thinks. The amount of leaked eridium is just about enough to– 

“FUCK!” Rhys jerks his hand away as a small implosion consumes the remains of the grenade, the tweezers and a chunk of the metal mounting bracket. Once the puff of purple smoke clears, a misshapen lump of metal falls onto the floor with a dull _thunk_.

“Shit.” Rhys picks up the fused metal lump and turns it in his hands. “A second later, and I’d have lost a few fingers to this.”

“Nah.” Jack follows the trajectory of the scrap metal from Rhys’s hand to the garbage bin. “With an implosion this size, we’re talking a phalanx or two at most.”

“Well, _that’s_ a relief. Ugh.” Rhys sits down heavily into the nearest chair, sends it rolling backwards with a kick of his heel to the floor. The chair slows to a stop at the far end of the lab. Jack wanders most of the way over there, or as far as his holo’s roaming range allows.

“Go on, cupcake. Try again. Sixth time’s the charm.”

“Is it really, Jack?” Rhys runs his flesh hand through his hair and turns his face towards the ceiling. “Because I think we need a new approach. You said it yourself, these cores weren’t _designed_ to be taken apart.”

“Hey, if you’re gonna let yourself get boxed in by small things like design intent, you might as well quit on progress as a concept. Even your average psycho is light years ahead of what humans were _designed_ to be.”

Rhys makes a face. “That sounds like something from a rejected draft of a motivational poster.”

_What, like one of the half-dozen you had of me, cupcake?_

Jack bites back the comeback before it gets out. Even in his current mood, it would still sound too much like flirting, and he’s not doing that anymore. Based on the past few days, neither of them is. Which is fine. More than fine. If anything, he’s glad Rhys has clearly decided to put a lid on the flirting, too. Makes it easier for Jack to keep his own resolution. And this time, he _is_ keeping it.

(This time, he can’t fucking afford not to.)

“Well, pardon me for trying to lift your spirits,” says Jack. “You want something less motivational? How about this: quit your whining, butterfingers, and go open up the next Singularity.”

“Butterfingers?” Rhys bristles. “This–” he waves his cyber hand through the air– “is a precision tool.”

“Not in your hands it’s not. This job needs a scalpel, and you’ve got one, but what difference does it make if you’re wielding it like a freaking sledgehammer?”

“Fuck you, Jack!” Rhys launches himself out of his chair, covers the distance between them in a couple of furious strides, and points a finger at Jack’s face. “I’m doing the best I can, I’ve been following your instructions to the letter, and the only help you’ve given me so far is your non-stop bitching!”

Rhys’s face is inches away from Jack’s – pale skin scattered with blotches of angry pink, mismatched eyes glaring through a suspiciously wet shine – and Jack knows that if they were in the simulation right now, every single resolution would’ve gone out the window about ten seconds ago, when he would’ve grabbed Rhys’s wrist with one hand, his hair with the other, and kissed the fuck out of that smartass mouth before its smartass owner had the chance to finish his dumbass sentence.

But they’re not in the simulation right now. They’re in the physical world, and Jack’s a hologram, and he can’t do any of that, and the worst part is, he knows it’s a good thing he can’t.

Fuck.

Jack raises his hands, palms out. “You’re right.”

“And I don’t give a– wait, what?”

“Ah shit, did I jump in too early?” Jack chuckles. “My bad. You’ve clearly got a head of steam built up there. Tell you what, I take it back, just pretend I said ‘you’re a dick’ and keep going, get it out of your system.”

“I…” Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. You ruined it. I’ll go get the next grenade. Who knows, maybe sixth time really _is_ the charm.”

“Before you do that…” Jack raises his finger. “I just had a thought.”

“Hm?”

“This–” Jack gestures at Rhys’s cybernetic arm– “may be a precision tool, yeah. This– ” He gestures at the rest of Rhys– “isn’t.”

“Can’t believe you missed a chance to call me a tool just there,” Rhys remarks drily. “So what’s your point?”

“My point is, maybe we really don’t have a hardware problem. We just need a software upgrade.”

“Hmm…” Rhys taps a finger on his lips. “You may be on to something there. If I installed some kind of high-precision routine… I really can’t spare the time to write one myself, but I can shop around. Maybe something designed for robo-assisted surgery or microbiology lab work–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Rhysie. Sure, that’s not the worst idea, but you’re still talking about wetware there. I was talking about _software_.”

Rhys looks at him, perfect brows kneaded together in thought for a few seconds before a disbelieving question dawns in his eyes.

“You don’t mean–”

“Yeah.” Jack nods. “Let me do it.”

“No.” 

If Jack had a corporeal form right now, the word alone would be enough to nail him to the nearest wall. As it is, he only has to contend with Rhys’s glare: the gold no longer molten but sharpened to a point, the brown amber hardened to fired clay.

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that, but hear me out–” he begins, only to get cut off again.

“NO.”

This ‘no’ is just as hard as the first one, but there’s a panicky sharpness around the edges of Rhys’s voice. Jack rolls his eyes. “Seriously. Listen. You don’t know what I’m actually–”

“Out of the question.”

“I’m not trying to–”

“Never in a million years.”

“Fuck it, Rhys, will you let me get through one – goddamn – sentence?” Jack growls.

“You can talk for an hour for all I care, Jack.” Rhys stalks across the lab. “You’re not getting back into my head.”

“I wasn’t asking to!” Jack follows, skirting the edge of his roaming range. “Just hear me out, okay?”

“I’m gonna regret this.” Rhys leans against a counter, arms crossed. “Go on.”

“Look…” Jack summons every reserve of his patience. “I’m not suggesting we use your cybernetics. Just your arm. You made it clear the other day that it’s detachable. You also said that you’ve done a bunch of upgrades on it, which means you’ve got a mount and a debug console, as a minimum. So what I’m suggesting is, you take the arm off, you set it up on a mount with a terminal like you would any other piece of equipment, you upload me into the terminal, and let me do the work. Like you said, the hardware is more than good enough for the job. A few minutes of calibration, and I can strip the grenade core in a jiffy. Then you kick me back out to my own computer. Sound good?”

“No.”

He’s not even considering it, thinks Jack. He’s probably not even been listening, just waiting for Jack to finish talking so he could get his answer out.

Jack takes a breath. Except he doesn’t, because out here, he doesn’t even have pretend lungs to pretend breathe with. Fuck.

“Okay…” He runs his fingers through his hair. They go right through. _Fuck_. “Am I doing a bad job explaining? ‘Cause I’m not sure you’re getting what I’m saying here, kiddo. Lemme try again.”

“Jack, I–”

“Lemme say my piece, will ya? The arm would _not_ be connected to you in any way. I would have _absolutely_ no link to your cybernetics. I’d be inside a computer, so it'll be no different from my current situation, or from the time when you stuck me inside that ECHO comm. Your arm doesn’t have an OS on its own, so it’s not like I could leave anything in there. And if you wanna make sure I don’t leave anything behind in the _terminal_ , you can just format the damn thing right after you yank me out of it. _Now_ are you getting it?”

“Jack.” Rhys sighs. “I got it the first time.”

“And?”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Rhys chews on his lip as he considers Jack.

“Do you really need me to explain? Do you _want_ me to?” Rhys’s voice is level, as is his gaze, but Jack can see the cracks forming below the surface, and– No. 

No, he doesn’t want Rhys to explain. He would rather do literally anything else in the world than stand there while Rhys explains – slowly, patiently, quietly – why he wouldn’t want to see Jack in control of his arm, whether or not the arm in question was separate from Rhys at the time.

Fuck.

“I– Okay. Okay. Point taken.”

“Good.” Rhys nods. “How about we call it a night?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jack turns on his heel and heads towards the projector. He doesn’t need to be next to it to discorporate back into the VR, but having a point of entry and exit makes the transition from holo into faux-corporeal less jarring. Truth be told, he likes to pretend that the projector is a fast travel station and that he needs to press a button to activate it. As long as he discorporates at the right moment, he can even pretend he _can_ actually press it.

This time, Jack must be too distracted to discorporate at the right moment. Instead, he sees his holographic finger go through the button’s plastic surface. It’s about as unsatisfying as one might expect.

“You okay?” Rhys’s voice asks, somewhere behind him.

“Didn’t realize you were still here,” Jack lies.

“Yeah. I just– yeah.”

_Just go already,_ Jack wants to tell him. _Get out of here. ‘Cause if you’re still here in thirty seconds–_

‘Cause if Rhys is still there in thirty seconds, Jack is gonna ask him if he’d like to come with him into the simulation. And Jack knows he _will_ ask, ‘cause right now, the only thing that sucks more than being an incorporeal hologram stuck on a 40-feet invisible tether and no way to interact with the rest of the world is the idea of going back to the white sparsely furnished nothing of the VR all by himself. 

Jack knows he _will_ ask, and he knows Rhys won't be coming with him, so Jack would rather Rhys get the fuck out now and save him the fucking humiliation.

When Jack turns around, Rhys is already by the door, way out of range.

“Hey,” Jack says. He doesn’t know if Rhys has taken the earpiece out yet. If he has, then he’s not gonna hear Jack, and he’s not gonna turn around.

Rhys turns around. “Yeah?”

“I, uh…”

_Come with me. Come with me, Rhys. Rhys, don't go. Stay. Stay._

“Is something wrong?” Rhys takes a few steps from the door back towards Jack.

“Yeah…” 

_Everything is wrong. So come with me. 'Cause everything is wrong, but maybe I've been wrong too, 'cause you're still here, which means you might actually come with me if I ask. And everything is still gonna be wrong and probably get a hell of a lot wronger, but at least I won’t be spending the night alone in there._

“Is it the projector?” Rhys asks, and Jack doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or put his fist through the wall. 

(Holy fuck, Jack, don't tell me that for a moment there, you actually thought he was asking if anything was wrong with _you_.)

Probably both.

(You did, didn't you?)

Yeah. Definitely both.

(You're the biggest idiot in six galaxies, Jack.)

Jack shakes his head.

“No, uh, nothing’s wrong. I was just talking to myself. ‘Cause, uh, I got an idea. Why don’t we have another stab at the digistructing some handy gear to help us out? Pun unintended.”

“Jack, there was a reason we went low-tech on this.” Rhys raises his eyes. Jack follows his look to the burnt spot on the ceiling.

“I’m not suggesting we try laser cutters again. But what about a precision manipulator? Something _kinda_ like your arm, but custom-made for the sole and singular – heh – purpose of dismantling the grenade core. A titanium cutter for the carbon fiber, a flat blade to separate the metal layers, yadda, yadda. What do you think of that?”

“Hmm.” Rhys nods. “That’s actually not a bad idea. Let’s start with that, first thing in the morning.”

“Why not now?”

“Jack. It’s been a long day, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m so fried I can barely operate an elevator right now, let alone a precision cutter.”

_Yeah. And you don’t wanna be in the same room as me for a minute longer than you gotta._

“Think you can survive for another hour?” Jack asks. “Answer some emails, or something?”

“I guess… What will happen in an hour?”

“In an hour, I’ll have whipped up the specs for the cutter. So you'll just punch them into the digistructor, hook me up so I can use it once it’s fabricated, and then I can work the magic while you get your beauty sleep.”

“Wait, wait. _You_ want to operate the equipment?”

“Well, yeah. That was kinda the point? The whole ‘better software for more precision’ thing?”

This time, Rhys doesn’t fire off a ‘no’ before Jack’s even done speaking. This time, he seems to actually consider it.

Not that it makes a difference in the end.

“I don’t think so, Jack.”

"Come on, why not? Look, when it comes to your arm, even separate from you – yeah, okay, I get why you wouldn't want to see me in there. But a random piece of tech? Separate from everything? Offline? Come on, Rhys, what's the freaking harm in that?"

"I'm sorry, Jack. I can't do that."

Jack feels a wry grin coming on. So that’s how it is, huh.

“Okay. Tell me this, cupcake. Is there _anything_ in this building you’d be willing to let me operate? Like, hypothetically?”

“Jack–”

“I mean, okay, a precision cutter has pointy bits, so hell knows what kinda damage I could do with that, but how about something friendlier? A vending machine? A radio, maybe?”

“Jack, please–”

“Coffee maker? Air con? Alarm clock?”

“I–”

“Is there _anything_ in the physical world you’d actually trust me with, Rhys?”

“I… I can’t answer that,” Rhys whispers. Jack chuckles.

“I think you just did. So answer me this next…” Jack advances towards Rhys, stops at the very edge of his roaming range, fixes his eyes on the kid’s face. “How long were you gonna keep stringing me along?”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Rhysie. You were never gonna set me free, were you? You were just banking on me being so desperate I’d keep hoping. Keep hoping and keep helping you while at it.”

Rhys’s face hardens. He squares his jaw as he steps forward, until he’s standing on the other side of the invisible line that Jack can’t cross without discorporating his hologram.

“That’s not true.” He looks Jack straight in the face as he says it. Any other day, Jack would believe him. But.

“Come on, kid. You don’t trust me enough to let me put even a toe out of my cage. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna let me walk around in a body of my own.”

"That's… different."

"Yeah. Sure it is."

“ _Jack_. I made you a promise. I’m keeping it.”

“Why should I believe you?” Jack sneers.

“Did you really just ask me that?” Rhys takes a step forward; a goddamn calculated move to make Jack back down, because the little shit _knows_ Jack hates being walked through. Jack moves back a fraction of a step, just enough so none of his pixels are clipping into Rhys.

“Yeah. Yeah, I fucking did. I’ll ask you again. Now that I know how you really feel, why should I believe a word you say, pumpkin?”

“Because only one of us has a history of breaking promises. Jack.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “You didn’t just fucking say that to me.”

“Yeah.” Rhys meets his gaze without a hint of flinching. “Yeah, I fucking did.”

(Walked right into this one, didn’t you, Jack?)

Jack’s never hated his hologram’s tether more than at this moment. If he weren’t at the edge of his range, he could’ve shouldered past Rhys and walked forward. The way it is, his only options right now are to continue this stand-off or back down some more.

“Okay! Fine!” Jack throws up his arms, spins on his heel and stalks deeper into the lab, away from the border of his virtual enclosure. “I thought we were past that, but if that’s what you wanna go back to…”

“Go back to?” Rhys snaps, behind him. “I wasn’t aware we ever left.”

“Is that so?” Jack turns to face Rhys again. “Then you and I must be on two very different road trips, Rhysie.”

Rhys crosses his arms. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Ohh, good job, top-notch comeback there, kiddo!” Jack brings his palms together a few times. The lack of an actual clapping sound is easily the most disappointing thing this week. “But how about we compare our travel notes, eh? You brought me back, you asked for my help, you promised me help in return–" Jack ticks the items off on his fingers as he speaks– "you’ve been taking business lessons from me, we've been working on projects together. With me so far?"

Rhys says nothing.

"I’ll take it as a ‘yes’. But that was all just work, right? Except you’ve also been chatting with me pretty much on the daily, you’ve been spending all this time hanging at my place, and, not to put too fine a point on it, less than a week ago you freaking made out with me, cupcake. So unless you wanna tell me that I've been imagining things 'cause maybe I glitched out so much while stuck in your ECHO eye–"

"No. You haven't been imagining things."

“Then what’s up with the ‘we never left that place’ bullshit? ‘Cause it sounds to me like we’ve been getting right along again, and that place should be way back in the rear view mirror.”

“It… should.” Rhys sounds like getting the words out is causing him physical pain. “But–”

“But what?”

For a while, Rhys says nothing again. Just stands there, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth while he watches Jack with an expression that wouldn’t be out of place on someone bleeding internally. 

And this isn’t fucking fair, ‘cause even now, Jack wants to grab him and tell him to stop being an idiot, ‘cause _c’mon, cupcake, this is getting way out of hand and nothing good’s gonna come out of this, so how about we pretend the last five minutes didn’t happen, and you just let me kiss you some more, instead?_

He can’t say that. He’s not gonna say that. But what he can say, what he’s gonna say is, what he’s gonna ask Rhys is…

_Don’t answer that, cupcake. Okay? Don’t answer that._

“Rhys–” he begins. Only a second too late. ‘Cause Rhys is already answering.

“But nothing, Jack. Good night.”

The sight of Rhys turning his back on him as he walks towards the exit fills Jack’s chest with white-hot fury, a scalding, spinning, inflating ball of molten glass.

“Don’t you DARE walk away from me.”

Rhys doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop.

“I SAID–” Jack storms after him– “don’t you fucking DARE walk away like tha–”

The world zaps out of existence around Jack in a silent sonic boom laced with lightning. There’s a split instant of heavy darkness and warm, smothering nothing, before reality floats back into focus. 

When it does, Jack’s not where he’s supposed to be. He’s next to the projector, halfway across the room from where– from where he tried to follow Rhys, forgetting all about the roaming range, tugging on his digital leash until it snapped him right back.

Of fucking course.

And by the looks of it, Rhys still has neither stopped nor even turned to look at him.

“RHYS!”

Rhys flinches at the sound. Jack watches his fingers reach for the earpiece. In a moment, he’s not gonna be able to hear Jack anymore. And then he’ll walk away, and Jack will stay here, his only options being to go back to his white collar prison, or to keep haunting the lab, a digital ghost ignored by his target audience of one. ‘Cause no-one except Rhys can hear him, even if he were to scream at the top of his digital lungs; no-one except Rhys can see him ‘cause his holo projection frequency is coded to Rhys’s cybernetics. To Rhys’s ECHO eye.

Maybe Rhys is right after all. They _haven’t_ moved on anywhere. 

“What do you want?” Jack asks.

Rhys looks over his shoulder, fingers wrapped around the earpiece. “What?”

“I said – what do you want from me?” Jack starts walking again, stops just short of his range boundary, looks at Rhys across the distance between them.

“What are you talking about, Jack?”

“It’s a straightforward question, kiddo. What. Do you want. From me? ‘Cause I’ve been going over everything that’s happened, and I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“You don’t, do you?” Rhys sounds so incredibly tired.

“No. I freaking don’t. I honestly thought we were square by now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is! Or so I thought, anyway! Look, I know what I did. I can’t go back and undo it, can I? But you _won_ , okay? You beat me. You destroyed everything that I’d left behind after I died the first time, and then you locked me up, and then you built your future out of Hyperion’s ashes. And if that wasn’t enough, you brought me back to help you do a better job at it, too. _And I’ve been doing that_. Coming up with new shiny toys for your Atlas. Coaching you on how to better sell _my fucking patents_ to fucking Maliwan. But that’s still not enough, is it? Will anything, ever, be enough for you, Rhys?”

“Jack–”

“No, don’t you give me those sad pretty eyes of yours,” Jack growls. “Just tell me, what's it gonna take? What else do you want? You don't want me dead, that much is clear, or else you would've done it ages ago. Or is it that you don't want me dead _yet_?"

"Stop it."

"Well, you clearly don’t. It’s not like I _can_ die right now, can I? Not without your leave. So how long are you gonna keep me around for, huh? How long till you think death isn’t too good for me after all? How long till I’m _allowed_ to die?”

“Stop. Jack, please stop.” Rhys squeezes his eyes shut.

“Or maybe this isn’t about time at all. Maybe you just wanna see how long till I’m back to begging you on my knees. ‘Cause you liked it so much the first time, you’d do anything to see me like that again, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t want that!” Rhys’s eyes fly open, letting tears roll down his face. “I didn’t want that the first time! I don’t want to hurt you, Jack! And I sure as hell don’t want you to die!”

“Then _what_ do you want from me, Rhys? ‘Cause the way I see it, you already got everything. Victory, revenge, a metric fuckton of reparations. What are you still missing? A goddamn apology?”

“YES!” Rhys’s voice cracks as it crests the peak of the word. He draws a shattered breath, licks the tears from his shaking lips. “Yes,” he repeats, quietly.

Oh.

The ball of molten glass inside Jack’s chest slows its spin. It slows down and down and down, and liquid glass sticks to the inside of his chest, and sits there, sticky and searing hot, covering every inch of the lungs he’s not supposed to have here.

He had no idea he could feel something like that in holo. He had no idea he could feel something like that at all.

“You still want it?” Jack asks.

Rhys mouths something soundlessly, clears his throat, then gives up on talking and gives Jack a slow nod, instead.

“I’m sorry,” says Jack. “I… I made you a promise. And I broke it. And I’m sorry.”

Rhys takes a tentative step closer to him. Just one.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, so softly it fucking hurts.

It hurts all the more ‘cause Jack can’t tell him. ‘Cause Jack would have to tell him that when he did that, he’d just found out about Angel, about what happened to Angel, about what he did to Angel. He’d have to tell him that he didn’t know how to deal with the _pain_ and the _grief_ and the _guilt_ and the _pain_ , ‘cause honestly, Jack still doesn’t know how to deal with all that, and he wasn’t even Jack at the time. He was in Helios, he _was_ Helios, and when you’re the size of a space station, your grief and guilt and pain are scaled to match, and so is your anger.

He could tell Rhys all that, of course. But he knows Rhys well enough to know that the only thing he’d take from that story would be that Jack fucked him over ‘cause he was hurting over his daughter’s death. 

Rhys wouldn’t ask him – hang on, Jack, did you honestly just try to use one betrayal to explain away another? Did you just use the worst thing you’ve ever done as an excuse for a pretty close second? Did you _really_ just say that you only tried to kill someone you considered your friend ‘cause you were feeling like shit about the fact that you’d killed your own daughter?

No, Rhys wouldn’t ask him any of that, ‘cause Rhys is ridiculous. He’d accept it, and understand it, and probably feel sorry _for Jack_ about it all.

Jack doesn’t want that. Jack doesn’t deserve that. And it’s about fucking time Jack learned some tricks other than ‘when in doubt, use baby girl’.

“What does it matter why?” Jack says. “I did it, didn’t I?” 

“Okay.” Rhys looks away, and Jack knows this isn’t enough, but he can’t tell him, but this isn’t fucking enough, but he can’t tell him, but he’s gotta tell him something, something more, anything that’d make it make sense even if it doesn’t.

But Jack’s got nothing.

_If you ever wonder just how fucked up you are, Jack… this is your yardstick. You can’t give your only friend in the world an honest-to-god apology even when you really fucking want to._

“Were you always going to do it?” Rhys asks, still not looking at him.

“No.” The word leaves Jack so fast, it’s as if the one small truth he can give Rhys is doing its damnedest to escape before he can think of a dozen reasons not to let it.

“No?” Rhys looks his way again, and the sheer _hope_ that’s spilling from his eyes threatens to crack Jack’s chest wide open.

“No,” Jack confirms. “That wasn’t the plan. And I can prove it.”

“How?”

Jack forces a smile onto his face. “The same way my being here is proof _you_ don’t want _me_ to die. If I’d been planning to kill you, you would’ve been dead the moment you let me into Helios.”

“You know… that’s actually kind of reassuring.” Rhys chuckles. It sounds as natural as Jack’s smile feels, but there are worse things in the world. “That, um… That says something about our relationship, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It sure does, cupcake.”

For a handful of unnecessarily long seconds, the two of them just stand there. Then Rhys covers most of the remaining distance between them and, once he’s a few feet away from Jack, sits down cross-legged on the floor. Jack, on the other side of the invisible boundary, mirrors his pose.

“Thought you were about to turn in?” Jack asks after a while.

Rhys shrugs. “It’s not like I could fall asleep right now, anyway. Say, I was wondering…”

“Yeah?”

“Were you ever gonna tell me?”

“Which bit? The ‘sorry’ thing, or the ‘hadn’t been planning to murder you’ thing?”

“The ‘sorry’ thing’.”

“I dunno,” Jack says, another small truth he feels he can tell Rhys just now. Feels kinda nice.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted it. And if I came to you with a ‘sorry, kid’, and you told me to shove it up my ass…”

“Oh.” Rhys winces. “Yeah. Yeah, that would’ve been… Yeah.”

Silence falls again, save for the quiet hum of the holo projector somewhere behind Jack.

“Jack?”

“Mh?”

“I know you were pretty pissed off back there, but something you said… ” Rhys takes a deep breath. “I just need to know.”

“Hit me.”

“Do you actually… want to… be here? ‘Cause I meant what I said about… not wanting to hurt you. I mean–”

“Yeah.” Jack holds up a hand. “I get what you mean.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Come on, cupcake, are you really asking me if I wanna kill myself? It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Please, can you just tell me. Do you want to be here, Jack?” 

How the hell is he supposed to answer that? Jack’s never been a quitter; not even at times when quitting, in retrospect, would’ve been a good fucking idea. He’s never been one for the sacrifice play, either; revenge is much more his speed. Getting killed while making sure he takes someone else down with him, that he could just about live with; still, he’d much rather take down the other guy and live, period.

So whichever way you slice it, suicide has never really been his style. 

But Jack also remembers the vivid, visceral horror of being trapped in the dying husk of Helios. The slow agony of watching his own code decay in the nothing-void of the disabled ECHO eye. The quiet murmur of terror at the back of his mind whenever Rhys goes too long without messaging him in the VR.

So maybe having a way out wouldn’t be the worst. Not his go-to option. But an option nevertheless. It’s something humans come equipped with, after all.

But that’s not the answer he wants to give Rhys right now.

_Do you want to be here, Jack?_

Jack looks into Rhys’s eyes, brown and gold, so soft and earnest and tired.

“Yeah, Rhysie. This ain’t half bad.”


	17. Workplace Hazards - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When was the last time you were friends with someone?”
> 
> “Hmm. Couple of years back, I guess.”
> 
> “Oh?” 
> 
> “Yeah. Ran into this dweeb down on Pandora.”
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A two-parter chapter? Why, yes, this is what happens when I have a certain chapter plan in mind, but then the story has a mind of its own. You know what they say -- no plan survives contact with ~~the enemy~~ Rhack.  
> 
> 
> * * *

_days since last incident: 9_

_HJack69: hey_

_Atlas1: What’s up?_

_HJack69: saw the little gift you left me at the lab_

_Atlas1: You like it?_

_HJack69: what’s the catch?_

_Atlas1: No catch. Voice-controlled browser, read access to ECHOnet._

_HJack69: thought you didn’t trust me with any gear out in the real world?_

_Atlas1: Voice control means no part of your code needs to touch it. Between that and read-only rights, not even you can do too much damage._

_HJack69: wow_

_HJack69: it’s like you WANT me to fuck up the echonet_

_Atlas1: Atlas’s site is extremely secure. And as far as the rest of the galaxy is concerned, the computer you’ll be using is somewhere on Demophon. Have fun._

_HJack69: oh i will_

_HJack69: hey_

_HJack69: you shouldn’t have_

_Atlas1: You’re welcome._

_HJack69: no, seriously_

_HJack69: you shouldn’t have done this_

_Atlas1: What are you talking about?_

_HJack69: setting a bad precedent, kiddo_

_HJack69: you just showed me how easy it is to get what i want_

_HJak69: all i gotta do is tug at your heartstrings a bit_

_Atlas1: My heartstrings have got nothing to do with this. Read access to ECHOnet was part of our deal. The only thing I wanted to show you is that I keep my word._

_HJack69: yeah, but_

_Atlas1: But what?_

_HJack69: nothing_

_HJack69: thanks, cupcake_

* * *

_days since last incident: 12_

“Okay, okay, how about this?” Rhys waves a hand through simulated air, summoning another slogan into existence. He pitches his voice perfectly to that signature corporate advertising tone as he reads it out. “ _Choose Atlas – for guns as smart as you are_.”

“Two problems with that,” says Jack. “One: you’re ripping off an old Hyperion slogan by, like, ninety percent. And two: you make a claim like that, you’re gonna insult half your target market and turn away the other. ‘Cause have you _seen_ your average buyer? No-one wants a gun that dumb.”

“No, no, you got it all wrong.” Rhys sits up on his grey beanbag, leans forward towards Jack across the small space between them: small enough that their knees are almost touching at the end of Rhys’s move. “I’m _complimenting_ the buyer by telling them they’re smart because they’re choosing Atlas weapons.”

“Hmm…” Jack spends the next half minute with a thoughtful expression meant to suggest he’s contemplating the slogan rather than the curve of Rhys’s lips. “Nah, way too complex for the primitives. How about – guns as smart as you wanna be? That’ll get their attention.”

Rhys’s mouth curves into a smirk as he arches one of his perfect eyebrows. “So instead of insulting half my target market, you want me to insult all of them.”

“You’d be surprised how far that can get you. You wanna know what Hyperion’s slogan was for one of the early e-tech lines?” Jack snaps his fingers to make some words appear in the air between them. Rhys chokes on a chuckle.

“You’re shitting me!”

“My right hand to Hyperion’s earning statement. And you’d better believe it sold like hotcakes, too.”

“Wow.” Rhys shakes his head. “Just… wow. You must’ve put Marketing in a tight spot to make them come up with that one.”

“On the contrary. I gave them plenty of _space_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Oh no.” Rhys’s face twists into the mix of cringed horror and guilt-ridden amusement that Jack knows well by now as the standard response to the gorier of Jack’s stories. “Was that around the same time as the ‘client-focused sniper rifle’ incident?”

“No, I didn’t space them that time, I’d shot them in the head. With the rifle. Keep up, will ya?”

“Sorry. I’ll try to keep better track of your summary executions.”

“Yeah, you’d better. Anyway, _that_ time I did replace the department. Well, okay, I grabbed the nearest intern and made her VIP of Marketing so she’d take care of it, but bottom line, replacements were hired.”

“Hang on. You made an _intern_ VP?”

“Hey, the kid was there for the whole thing, didn’t lose her lunch, _and_ came up with more ideas on the spot than the rest of those morons had in weeks. Figured she deserved a shot at impressing me.”

“And if she missed that shot, then _you_ wouldn’t?”

“Hah!” Jack points a finger gun at Rhys. “Good one. Anyway, I don’t _remember_ killing her, so she’s probably done okay for herself.”

“Was she the mastermind behind…” Rhys gestures at the slogan, still floating through the air between them.

“Nah, that was before her time. Early days. I got a bit more responsible about my personnel decisions after that.”

“Did you, though? I’ve been at Hyperion during your rule. You were still spacing departments left and right.”

“Pfft, once a month at most, and I’d always make sure to authorize replacement. Back then, I might’ve, uh, forgotten about that for a couple weeks. Until one not-so-beautiful morning, someone comes and tells me that the guys at _Bang for Your Buck_ have been messaging us for the last ten days about our presentation, and unless we send something over in the next _hour,_ they’re giving our slot to Torgue.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, you’ve got no idea. This wasn’t just a speaking thing. This was my first official appearance as CEO. Unveiling Hyperion’s new line of e-tech. And I was about to lose it ‘cause a bunch of incompetents in Marketing couldn’t answer a goddamn echo-mail?”

“Because being dead is no excuse.”

“Duh, you’ve worked for Hyperion long enough to know that. Anyway, I can talk about e-tech for hours, so it’s not like I _needed_ any slides, but they still had to put _something_ on the screen behind me, and we still didn’t have a slogan worth a damn, so...”

“So…” Rhys presses his lips together, but a chuckle escapes anyway. “You stood in front of everyone who’s anyone in the weapons business, a newly-minted CEO of Hyperion.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack nods.

“And you extolled the wonders of your new breakthrough that was going to revolutionize the arms market of the six galaxies.”

“Yup.” 

“And then you finished your presentation by declaring…” Rhys’s eyes, sparkling with barely restrained laughter, dart towards the words in the air.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, Jack. Say it.”

“Nope.”

“Say. It.”

“I’m not gonna say it, Rhysie.”

“Pretty please?”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.” Jack grins.

“Well, what do you want?”

“Hmm.” Jack swallows his first answer, then a couple more. “I think It’s about time you showed off your digs. Gimme a tour of Atlas, cupcake. You can set up a mobile projector, right?”

“I don’t know about mobile. But I can set one up in my office, how about that?”

“Deal.” Jack holds out his left hand for Rhys to shake, holds back the urge to stroke a thumb along the back of Rhys’s hand.

“Okay.” Rhys’s handshake is firmer than Jack expected and a good few seconds longer than it needed to be. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Jack clears his throat, straightens his posture as far as sitting on a beanbag would allow, and gestures at an imaginary screen behind him.

“E-Tech by Hyperion: Just Buy It, Fuckers.”

Rhys’s laughter is a shockwave of unrestrained delight. It fills the endless room up to the non-existent rafters and bounces off the invisible walls, and even as Jack’s laughing with Rhys, he feels the ricochet hitting something inside his chest.

* * *

_days since last_ _incident: 21_

Rhys isn’t sure at what point dropping in on Jack unannounced has become normal for him, or at what point he’s stopped being even slightly surprised by what he finds in the VR. Aside from the staples – the two armchairs, the desk, the couch – Jack’s preferences in decorating his space have been about as consistent as a chameleon with a seizure.

Still, while there may not be a method to the madness (not one that Rhys can spot, anyway), the state of the virtual space does tend to go through phases, certain overarching themes that last anywhere between three days and a week before Jack gets bored and moves on to the next thing.

The current theme, it seems, is ‘simulated life forms’. So far this week, Rhys has incorporated into the program to find Jack finger-gun shooting colonies of spiderants descending in droves from an invisible point on the ceiling, throwing balls of an unidentified substance at a carnivorous plant the size of a small house and, on one occasion, angrily monologuing at what had to be either a miniature version of a Vault monster or something straight out of a psycho’s nightmare.

Today’s animal of choice, however, has to be the weirdest choice yet.

“Never took you for the guinea pig type,” Rhys comments as he watches a black and white specimen in question scurry among the papers on Jack’s desk. 

“Eh, they’re just so… pointless, you know?” Jack shrugs and scoops up the guinea pig off his desk. “Look at it, it’s a freaking potato with legs. Like, why are they even a thing? ”

“I guess they’re just cute?”

“I guess.” Jack pokes the guinea pig’s belly with his finger, then tosses it into the air. Even knowing nothing is real in here, Rhys can’t hold back a gasp and makes to catch the animal on its way down, but the fall never comes. Jack snorts. “Relax, cupcake. They’re gravity-proof.”

“So I see…” Rhys mutters, watching the guinea pig tread air with its little legs. Yup, this is definitely one of the weirder days in the simulation.

“Huh,” says Jack, somewhere outside of Rhys’s line of sight. “Now that I think about it. Angel used to have a couple of these when she was little.”

Rhys looks away from the floating guinea. Jack’s standing at his desk, hands full of papers he’s just gathered from it. Rhys can’t see his face. (A cowardly part of him is glad that’s the case.)

“One was grey. The other, white and kinda orangey brown. Mr. Squeaky and Mr. Fluffy. She was–” a strangled chuckle escapes Jack– “really, _really_ bad at naming things.”

 _What the hell am I supposed to say to that,_ Rhys thinks through the panicked din in his brain. He can’t exactly argue with Jack (those have got to be the worst pet names in the history of the universe), but agreeing doesn’t seem like a good survival strategy, either. 

Jack sifts through the papers in his hands, crumples some into balls, pins others onto a floating white board. Rhys stays silent and maintains a neutral expression while waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Can’t believe I forgot. But that memory’s gotta be, what, almost twenty years old by now? Well, maybe less than that at the time of recording, I guess.”

...and what with the first half of Jack’s non sequitur being what it is, is it any surprise that the other shoe is a size 15 steel-toed combat boot?

 _Nope_ , thinks Rhys, _not touching any of that, either_. Because debating the questions of identity and continuity with an AI of a dead man (a fact about Jack that Rhys forgets all too often these days; alarmingly often) is nowhere less fraught than casually chatting about the childhood pets of the man’s deceased daughter (and Rhys has seen and heard enough to know that as far as Jack is concerned, that _is_ his relationship to Angel, identity and continuity be damned).

Stay silent. Stay neutral. Try not to think about what Jack might bring up next. (It’s going to be something about his imprisonment in the ECHO eye, isn’t it? Because why the hell not, the way this is going.)

Jack finally turns around. From the way the corner of his mouth twitches when he meets Rhys’s eye, Rhys can tell that his own attempts at facial expression management have failed something awful.

“Breathe, cupcake.”

“I’m– I’m breathing. Breathing just fine.”

“Yeah.” Jack chuckles. “I can see that. Anyway, didn’t mean to spring that on ya. It’s just funny how memory works. Artificial or not. Now, what was today’s project?” Jack plucks a blueprint from the whiteboard. “Scopes, was it?”

“Yeah,” says Rhys. “Scopes. I want to improve on the current A2, but keep it available in old-school mode even once we’ve rolled out smart targeting as an option for all Atlas guns. And before you say anything–” 

“Sounds good.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said it’s a good idea. Legacy mode means nostalgia points, nostalgia points mean extra dollars. There’ll always be someone opposed to new things on principle, or someone who’ll grab both models to complete a collection, not to mention someone who’s gonna buy a few crates of legacy A2’s to make a buck of off collectors in case the model’s discontinued.”

Listening to Jack rattle off reasons why Rhys’s idea is great opens up an uneasy, squirming pit in his belly. On any other day, this kind of praise would’ve filled Rhys with enough bubbling enthusiasm to turn his blood to cherry soda in his veins. Today, though, he can’t help but wonder: does Jack actually like the idea at all, or is he just eager to change the subject?

(Because Rhys himself would sooner greenlight research into skag-flavored frozen yogurt than continue their previous conversation.)

“Plus,” Jack continues, his own apparent enthusiasm undeterred. “Let’s not forget backwards compatibility. That’s a sure-fire way to send a message that your Atlas is the kind of manufacturer that’s sticking around for awhile – and isn’t that just the image you’re going for, Rhysie?”

“It is.”

“So what’re you standing around for? Spawn in the good stuff.” 

_Okay_ , thinks Rhys as he codes in the digistructors and the shooting range. Whatever Jack _actually_ thinks of his idea, he’s going along with it. And Rhys himself likes the idea. So the only thing he can do now is make the most of it, focus on the work, and hope there are no more conversational curveballs.

An hour later, Rhys’s plan is a resounding success. That is to say, he’s immersed into the work just deep enough that when the next curveball arrives, he doesn’t see it coming.

“You’re looking at me weird.” 

Rhys looks up from examining the target peppered by dummy rounds.

“Uh. Until this moment just now, I wasn’t looking at you at all.”

“You’ve _been_ looking at me weird for the last hour. Whenever you thought I couldn’t see.”

“I wasn’t!” Not the whole hour, anyway. Only the first fifteen minutes or so. During which Rhys _might_ have glanced in Jack’s direction a few times. Just to see how he was doing. What he looked like when he thought he wasn't being watched. And he looked... normal, so Rhys stopped watching for signs of more trouble.

Except, apparently, Jack knew the whole time, and now he’s waited for an extra forty-five minutes to point it out, and… oh boy, here we go.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I see why you can’t help yourself.” Jack flashes him a grin. “And it’s not like I mind you looking, not one bit.”

“Jack–”

“But–” Jack’s expression sours– “I don’t like it when you look at me like _that_.”

“Like what?”

“Look.” Jack puts down an ECHO tablet on his desk with a clang. “I know what’s going on here, okay? I said a couple of things, and now you’re making a big deal out of ‘em. Well, lemme put your mind at ease: it’s not a big deal. None of it.”

“Okay.”

“Also, I wasn’t saying that stuff, like, to you. I mean, it’s just by chance that you just happened to be here when I thought of a thing and said it out loud. And then another thing. It was random, okay? I think out loud all the time, I mean, I could’ve just as easily said that stuff to the pack of kraggon pebbles I had running around here yesterday, you know? So it’s not like I was–” Jack waves a hand through the air– “pouring my heart out to you or something.”

Something about that vague gesture combined with the perfectly executed flippancy in Jack’s tone, lands smack into the middle of Rhys’s chest, digs in its claws, and starts burrowing into his flesh. This is so much worse than actually talking about the things from before.

“There you go again!” Jack points an accusatory finger at Rhys. “With the face! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“What do _you_ think I’m doing?” Rhys asks, slowly. The small burrowing creature inside his chest is making its way past his ribcage, pushing his ribs apart just enough to squeeze through in-between them.

“Hell if I know.” Jack shrugs. Glances off to the side. His upper lip curls to bare his teeth as he scoffs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were feeling sorry for me.”

“And if I was?”

Jack’s eyes gravitate back to Rhys’s face. “Then I’d have to tell you to fucking spare me, Rhysie. Pity’s a four-letter word.”

“Well, friendship isn’t,” Rhys blurts before he can stop himself. The creature in his chest stops burrowing and stares, clearly taken aback by his own audacity.

Jack stares as well, blue and green eyes fixing Rhys to the spot. Rhys holds his ground, defiant not so much by design as by default. Because backpedaling out of this would mean saying, in almost as many words, ‘I’m _not_ your friend, Jack’, and– and that’s something he couldn’t bring himself to say even if it were true.

“That…” Jack says, eventually. “That’s gotta be the cheesiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in all of my lives.”

Rhys’s patience gives out in a flash: a light bulb filament crystallized over long use, finally snapping under the next, last surge of electricity. This is it. This is fucking it. He’s tried treading on eggshells, he’s tried ignoring the whole thing, he’s tried being earnest. And still, all he gets for his troubles is an insult and Jack’s condescending glare. 

“Maybe you would’ve heard more cheesy stuff like that if you weren’t such a fucking dick, Jack! Haven’t had many friends in any of those lives, have you?”

Anger flashes across Jack’s face, narrowing his eyes, twisting his mouth into a snarl again, pulling his chin down like he’s prepared to charge Rhys at a moment’s notice. Rhys roots his feet to the spot, fists and teeth clenched, his own chin jutting forward, because god damn it, he’s holding his ground, and by design this time, because backpedaling out of _this_ would mean saying, in almost as many words, ‘I’m scared of you, Jack’. And that’s something Rhys isn’t saying, regardless of how true it may or may not be.

As their stand-off continues, Jack is silent, but his expression is gradually morphing into something Rhys can only describe as... curiosity. Not the fun or playful kind, but something straddling the line between scientific interest and morbid fascination. 

“What?” Rhys can’t help but ask after a few more seconds. Being in the focus of this weird inquisitive glare is somehow much more disconcerting than facing down Jack’s anger.

Jack says nothing. And then he does something that knocks Rhys off-balance quite literally. Jack doesn’t watch him start and stagger, though, nor does he see the look of pure shock of Rhys’s face. 

Because Jack’s not looking at him right now. He’s turned around. And backed off.

He’s… never done that before.

Wait. Yes, he has. Exactly once. Exactly like this. A few weeks ago, in the real-world ballistics lab. During a conversation that turned into a stand-off even worse than this one, which turned into an argument, which turned into a shouting match. A shouting match that, inconceivably, turned into an apology. Jack’s apology. Which was either genuine or the best piece of acting Rhys, or anyone in the six galaxies, has ever seen.

And after the apology, there was… something. A moment, maybe. A moment that lasted for a few hours, with the two of them just sitting on the floor, in a silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable, but not charged anymore, either. 

They had started out facing each other, on either side of the border of Jack’s hologram’s roaming range. Then Rhys shifted around until he could lean his back against the wall. He wasn’t going to sleep, of course, he was just resting his eyes for a moment. It had been a long day and an even longer evening.

He woke up a few hours later, freezing cold and stiff as a board. Jack’s hologram was nowhere to be seen, but the sight of the earpiece in Rhy’s fingers produced a sleepy memory of Jack’s voice in his ear. ( _I got better things to do than sitting here watching you snore, pumpkin. I’m going back to my place, I suggest you do the same._ )

After coaxing his limbs into moving again, Rhys got to his feet and went home. But not before setting up one of the computers in the lab for voice-activated read-only access to ECHOnet.

“You got a point, you know,” Jack says, still facing away. “It’s been a while.”

Still caught up in the memory of that evening a few weeks ago, Rhys is about to plunge headfirst into a knee-jerk ‘shit-I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-that’. But it’s the memory of the following morning that makes him bite his tongue. He _doesn’t_ want Jack to think he can get away with murder – or with being a complete dick – as soon as he tugs on Rhys’s heartstrings.

But also, borderline-mocking a dead guy for having no friends? That may have been... a bit too mean.

“When _was_ the last time you were friends with someone?” Rhys asks. Not an apology, but an olive branch. With some luck, Jack will take it. And not just to whip Rhys across the face with it.

“Hmm.” Jack tilts his head back, contemplating the non-existent ceiling. “Couple of years back, I guess.”

“Oh?” That’s got to be that girlfriend, thinks Rhys. The sheriff with the hat. He takes a moment to remember the name. Nadya? No, that’s the Head of Accounting. Nisha! Rhys opens his mouth to ask the next question, but Jack continues before he can get any more words out.

“Yeah. Ran into this dweeb down on Pandora.”

Oh.

“So…” Rhys ventures after a few moments of trying to read Jack’s back for suggestions on his next course of action, and finding none. “How’d that go?..”

Jack shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, we hung out for a while. Had some fun. I think?”

“Yeah.” Rhys chews on his lip. “I guess.” 

He watches Jack some more. There’s something… wrong about the way he’s standing. Facing away from Rhys but still staring at a non-existent spot somewhere above him; hands in pockets, pulling his shoulders into a half-slump; weight shifting from heel to toe just so, almost as if pacing in place. 

Undecided, all of him. Neither here nor there.

And that’s what’s wrong. Because some people may _have_ a presence, but Jack _is_ presence, Jack is the air in the room, Jack is _gravity_. 

Jack is… so many things.

What Jack isn’t is words spoken without looking, or statements ending in question marks, or this posture of his. Uncertain. Unrooted. Geared for flight before fight. None of this is him.

None of _this_ is _Jack_.

“So then what happened?” Rhys asks. “With… the dweeb?”

“Come on, you know how that story goes.” Jack turns around. A weary chuckle, a wearier smile. Neither looks right on him. “It’s like you said. I was a dick to the guy, and then he didn’t wanna be my friend anymore.”

Rhys only has one answer to that, and he knows it’s going to be another entry into Jack’s hall of cheesy fame. He doesn’t care one bit. Because most days, Rhys has no trouble forgetting that Jack is, for all intents and purposes, a digital ghost. But he’d rather endure another barrage of mockery than spend another moment seeing Jack as this tired shadow. 

“It’s not that he didn’t want to be your friend. Just… couldn’t, for a while,” Rhys says, and prepares for the sneer, the scoff, the snappy comeback.

None of those come. Jack just watches him, his gaze dulled down from the blade of a plasma torch to the glow of a distant nebula. And without the intensity that would normally preclude a closer look, Rhys can almost see something else, deep in the blue and green. A hint of... warmth? He can’t be sure he isn’t imagining it.

“Is that so?”

Rhys’s heart lurches against his ribcage. Jack’s voice is low, and although sharpness returns to his eyes, it doesn’t occlude what Rhys thought he’d seen in there. If anything, it’s even easier to see without that world-weary cloud in the way.

“Well…” Rhys manages to pull a smile onto his face. “Last I heard, you two were working together. Chatting on the daily. Hanging out a lot. That doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t want to be friends.”

“Hmm. It doesn’t, does it?” 

Jack’s half-smile shouldn’t be able to sharpen _and_ soften his face at the same time. Then again, thinks Rhys, nothing about this man has ever made any amount of sense. Why start now?

“That’s what I thought. Also, rumor has it, you even made out with the guy. I mean, I don’t know how reliable my sources are…”

“Mmh, they got a few things right.” Jack’s eyes linger on Rhys’s mouth for a beat. “Got any more intel vis-a-vis makeouts, by the way? Of the past and, especially, future variety?”

“I can… make some inquiries.” It takes Rhys a conscious effort to tamp down the reflex to moisten his lips. (A much bigger effort is required to stop himself from sprinting across the ten-foot distance between them and kissing Jack on the mouth before he’s done talking).

“You do that. Oh, and…” Jack’s focus drifts to something over Rhys’s shoulder. He rocks from heel to toe again, just once, before planting his feet more firmly and returning his gaze to Rhys’s face. “While you’re at it, can you check if the guy ever got that apology I sent him? ‘Cause there was no return receipt on the message, so I dunno if maybe it went to spam or whatever.”

“I’ll–” Rhys stops himself mid-word, closes his eyes for a moment, lets out a breath. A part of him expects to see Jack’s face right in front of his when he opens his eyes again. (A bigger part of him is disappointed when that doesn’t turn out to be the case.) “Actually, I don’t need to check that one. He got it.”

“In that case…” Jack grins. “Tell the guy to get on top of his messages. Just ‘cause I’m dead doesn’t mean I like being ghosted.”

Through an effort that’s nothing short of heroic, Rhys swallows a laugh and rolls his eyes.

“I’m not even going to dignify that.”

“No, no, you see, ‘cause you never said if you accepted my apology, back in the lab, that means you were ghosting me–”

“I got it. That joke’s bad enough without you explaining–” 

“–but it’s funny ‘cause I’m dead!”

“ _Yes_.” Rhys groans. “So’s that horse you’re beating.”

“No, but you see, I’m also kinda-sorta a ghost myself, I guess? Hmm, what _do_ you get when you ghost a ghost? Aside from one hell of a tongue twister, that is.”

That’s it, Rhys decides as Jack goes on rambling. Time to log out and go back to his office. Because if he has to listen to this a moment longer, he might have to kill himself.

That, or go ahead and actually kiss Jack. If for no other reason than to shut him up.

Well. There may be other reasons. But the shutting up part, that’s important.

Then again, this is a simulation. Can Jack make himself heard even if his mouth is occupied– preoccupied– doing things? Probably? There’s a way to test that hypothesis. Several, actually. For instance– 

Rhys blinks and pulls his mind back before it runs away designing the proposed experiment. Not today. He’s got a meeting in fifteen, and it’s been an unexpectedly emotional afternoon, and– and there are so many other reasons that he will think of, back in the physical world, in the privacy of his office, in the fifteen minutes he’s got until his next meeting. And that’s what he’s going to be doing. The only context in which he will be thinking about kissing Handsome Jack (again) will be listing the many, many reasons not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> This will be the last chapter before the new year, and I wanted to thank everyone who's been along for the ride so far. Writing this fic has been a huge factor in maintaining my sanity in 2020, and your kudos and comments have made me so very happy. THANK YOU, one and all, and stay tuned for more chapters in 2021!
> 
> Also, for previews, drabbles and other Rhack and BL goodness, I'm on twitter [@CaffeinatedOwl1](https://twitter.com/CaffeinatedOwl1)  
> 


	18. Workplace Hazards - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Atlas1: So what do we do?_
> 
> _HJack69: step one, stop running around in a panic like a headless cl4p-tp_
> 
> _HJack69: step two, aka the classic_
> 
> _HJack69: Handsome Jack saves your ass_
> 
> _Atlas1: How are you gonna do that?_
> 
> _HJack69: same way i do everything else_
> 
> _HJack69: with my signature heroic flair and effortless style_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a rocky start to 2021, we're finally back! And what was going to be a two-parter chapter is actually a three-parter now. Anyone gonna try and stop me? Didn't think so.

_days since last incident: 32_

“You can do it, Jack. I believe in you.”

“Oh, I know. What am I supposed to be doing, again?”

Rhys eyes him with a wry smile that does nothing to hide the amusement in his eyes.

“It’s not gonna kill you, you know. Saying that you actually like my idea. Admitting someone else came up with a good thing you haven’t thought of yourself.”

“Actually, I think even attempted humility might cause some kinda critical conflict with my software, so for all you know, it _could_ kill me. Ask yourself, cupcake: is it really worth the risk?”

“Hmm, would I risk your life to hear you say ‘yes, Rhys, you’re right, that grenade mod is awesome, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it myself’...”

“Whoa, whoa.” Jack forms a T with his hands. “Before you get carried away, do I need to remind you that I _have_ thought of it myself? Using eridium for tagging and targeting, that was my idea. So aren’t you just tacking your thing onto my thing now?”

“No, because–”

“That’s right, my bad. You’re _not_ tacking your thing onto my thing, ‘cause dusting the affected area with pre-treated eridium, that’s what the Singularity is all about. Which was also my design. So both of the things you’re using are my ideas. You just thought of a new way to combine them.”

A new way that, it should be said, would result in a novel product, the division of credit and profits between Hyperion and Atlas for which, under circumstances resembling business as usual, would take a patent court a long-ass time to unravel. What with the circumstances being the farthest thing from business as usual, Hyperion currently extinct, and Jack’s legal status incomprehensible to the best lawyers in six galaxies, the kid probably has full ownership of his new grenade mod idea. (And letting him have the patent for the Jack-invented smart targeting _was_ part of the deal, strictly speaking.)

But leaving the legal bullshit out of it, it _is_ a good idea. And it’s not like Jack is actually opposed to giving credit where it’s due. However, while Rhys may have succeeded at coming up with a cool new thing, he’s thoroughly failing at something that’s key to getting one’s genius recognized: not being a complete dick about it. Or, in this case, not being that to someone who’s a) much more of a genius and b) so-o-o much more of a dick.

“So, uh…” Some of the earlier smugness crumbles off of Rhys’s face. “You think it’s not worth trying, actually?”

Ah, shit. Maybe dial it down a notch, Jack. The idea’s got legs – and the potential to blow them off wholesale and with surgical precision – so it’d be a shame to lose it to one of Rhysie’s world-famous insecurity attacks.

“Hey, kid.” Jack spreads his arms. “You’re the CEO, the visionary, the big deal. I just work here. It’s basically my job to go along with whatever idea you bring to the table, no matter what I think of it.”

“That’s _not_ your job. If I recall our deal correctly – and I do, because that day has been branded into my memory forever by virtue of you being a complete and utter dick and going on about deals with the devil… where was I?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You were just telling me what my job is, Mr. Strongfork.”

“Shut up. As I was saying, our deal, in your own words, was that Handsome Goddamn Jack – that’s you – would be my right-hand man. Not my yes-man.”

Oh damn.

“And,” Rhys continues, “I know you well enough to know you’ve never been a yes-man to anyone in your entire life.” 

Oh _damn_. Maybe Rhys is the one who should dial it down a notch, because this attitude of his is doing a pretty good job at dialing _Jack_ up. By several.

“But also.” Rhys lets out a breath that seems to actually deflate him a bit. “If I were all the things you said, I wouldn’t have asked for your help in the first place. I may be the CEO, but _you’re_ the visionary. So you tell me, for real, is my idea worth pursuing?”

“Okay, okay. For real.” Jack lines up Rhys’s earlier description in his head. “The thing where we start out with a kinda-sorta Singularity, use the eridium core pre-splosion– prexplosion? that thing where there’s a small boom before the big boom – to mark the targeted area, and then have the original grenade split into a bunch of baby ones specifically primed to cover said targeted, now marked area? That’s a pretty decent idea. We still need to decide if you want the marked radius to be a hard limit or a suggestion, though, ‘cause if you wanna do hard limit, we’ll need to think containment…”

“But in principle? Is this worth anything? Or is it really just a hack and a rip-off?”

“The principle is sound. Aw hell, fine, I’ll just say it. The principle is _cool_. As for the hack and rip-off thing – please. Everything is ripped off of something, great artists steal, and no-one cares if you’re a hack if you can actually hack it. Bottom line: it’s a good idea, okay? There. I said it. This has promise, let’s do it. What kinda testing setup do we need for that?”

“Hmm, let me think…” Rhys taps his chin with a metal finger. “I was thinking something like… this?”

With a snap of Rhys’s fingers, a copy of the real-world ballistics lab spawns into the simulation. There are notable differences, though: a larger containment area, a powered – what the hell do you even call it? slingshot? thingie – for launching grenades into the containment area from a safe distance… 

In short, it’s perfect for the exact experiment they want to stage. And there’s no way in hell Rhysie just spawned that in at the drop of a hat. Even Jack himself would’ve needed a moment to get the details right.

Jack crosses his arms. “You little shit. You _knew_ I was gonna be on board with it. You had this entire setup locked and loaded before you even got here.”

“Might’ve.” A smirk blooms on Rhys’s face, even more smug than before. “But I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to score a pep talk off Handsome Jack himself.”

“Let me repeat myself. You. Little. Shit.”

“I’m surprised you fell for it,” Rhys continues, looking as pleased with his unfairly pretty self as Jack would like to be right now. “Didn’t you tell me once that no matter how insecure I’m feeling, I should never ask the universe for reassurance that I don’t suck?”

“Maybe?” Jack shrugs. ”I say a lot of stuff.”

(It only takes Jack a moment to do a string search through his memory files and confirm that yeah, he did say that. And apparently, Rhys remembered it almost word for word.)

(Well, damn. That’s… that’s kinda cool, maybe.)

“Well, I’m not falling for it again. You try the _wah, wah, Jack_ thing on me again, you’re getting an ass-kicking, not a pat on the head.”

“Got it.” Rhys pulls a terminal screen into existence and codes in a crate of mock Singularities. “What about the flattery angle? Is that also off-limits?”

“Nah, it’s cool for now. If I ever get tired of being told how handsome and brilliant I am, I’ll let you know.”

“Deal.”

Jack reaches to pick a grenade out of the crate. Rhys does the same, with perfect timing for their hands to brush past each other in the process. _This has gotta be some kind of genre-bending cliche_ , thinks Jack. What next, making out in the barrel of a cannon?

(It’s not like he‘d be _opposed_ to that, or anything.)

The testing process is complicated by the fact that back in the real world, their stock of Singularities is too limited to burn through them on a whim like that, and there’s still no way to synthesize eridium in the Atlas VR. (After iteration #548, Jack had abandoned his attempts to try and teach the digistructor how to make ‘fakeridium’, and put in a much more straightforward request for a sledgehammer.) 

The good news is, they don’t need eridium for the current ‘proof of concept’ stage, ‘cause the only question they need answering is: can the newly-spawned baby grenades be taught to target a given area? How exactly the area will be marked is irrelevant at this juncture.

Which means they don’t actually need to start with Singularity as a prototype and jury-rig it into splitting. Instead, they can start with–

“Maliwan Transfusion.”

“No, no, no. The MIRV.”

“Never thought I’d live to see you rooting for _the Torgue option_.”

“Well, the other option’s _Maliwan_. But more importantly, Torgue’s actually the right one. They both spawn child grenades, but the Transfusion is already set up as homing. Ripping that out to substitute our own targeting protocol is gonna be a pain in the ass. Much easier to stick new features onto the MIRV.”

“Yes, but the Transfusion doesn’t explode.”

“Exactly. What use is it to us?”

“Proof of concept, remember? Like you said, if we want hard limits and containment, that’s a later stage. We just need to know that the child grenades target the right area. We don’t need them to actually explode.”

“Yeah, but we _can_. And I wanna.”

Rhys shakes his head. “Okay, you’re _definitely_ in a… Torgue-adjacent mood today.”

“And you’re in a boring-ass-adjacent mood, _every_ day! C’mo-o-on, Atlas.” Jack grins. “Let’s get some explosions in here. Live a little.”

“Not the two statements you usually hear in that order…” Rhys mutters, but he’s already summoning a terminal screen. “Okay, here’s a MIRV. Live… ish. Reduced payload, and blanket prevention from detonating anywhere outside the containment field.”

“Spoilsport.” Jack floats the grenade mod in the air in front of him, taps it with his index finger to make the relevant code appear on a new screen nearby. (The lines responsible for the payload and detonation restriction are highlighted in an angry red, and _blerp_ at him annoyingly when he pokes them. Yes, yes, of _course_ that part’s read-only. He can _hear_ Rhys rolling his eyes even without looking his way.)

Right, this should be easy enough. Leave the spawning subroutine in, add a homing feature, but instead of ‘nearest hostile’, set it to ‘nearest hostile with pre-set digital signature’, with ‘cause that’s what it’s gonna be for now, what with the whole ‘no simulated eridium’ thing. It should work fine when they need to update digital to chemical (‘nearest cluster of eridium containing at least X number of particles of type Y’).

“Okay, let’s try this.” Jack collapses the code screen, grabs the updated grenade and tosses it to Rhys. The look of panic on the kid’s face alone, as he fumbles to catch it, is worth it.

“Shit, Jack!”

“No explosions outside the containment field, dum-dum, you said so yourself.” Jack laughs, then laughs harder at the blush that immediately swallows Rhys’s face. “You’re freaking priceless, you know that? Go on, set up the thingie already.”

Rhys shoots him a glare that would be almost impressive on a face less beetroot in color, and goes to set up the thingie, i.e. hoist the grenade into the… Jack still can’t think of a good word for the launch mechanism, so he’s sticking with ‘slingshot’.

“Uh, fire in the hole?”

“Bombs away!”

The two of them watch the grenade carve an elegant arc through the simulated air, landing square in the middle of the containment field. A pause in which the real thing would be releasing eridium particles for targeting, and then, for one eye-watering moment, the grenade goes to pieces more slowly than a grenade should, each of the pieces becomes a brand new bouncing baby frag of its own, eager to explore the world, meet new exciting people, and blow them to small bits.

“Here it comes.” Jack grins. Rhys claps his hands over his ears.

A good few seconds later, they’re still watching the containment space, full of bouncing grenades that are utterly failing to detonate.

“Lemme guess.” Jack pulls a face. “You overdid the safety. They can’t detonate _anywhere_ , can they?”

“Sure they can!” Rhys protests, pulling up the code. He stabs a finger at a line. “See? Specific exclusion coordinates.”

“What’s the freaking problem, then?” Jack pulls up his own copy of the code. “Restricted-area detonation, child grenade spawning, target nearest hostile with relevant digital signature… Gotta be something wrong with that.”

“Wait, wait. Say that last part again.”

“I said, we must’ve fucked up the digi-sig.”

“No, before that. What’s the target?”

“The nearest hostile with– Ah.” Jack contemplates the grenade-filled containment field. “We haven’t got any hostiles in there, have we? Can we spawn some bandits into there, or skags, or something?”

“I am NOT spawning in any skags! Let alone bandits!”

“Well, not real ones, of course, I can do without the smell. Simulated, like those guinea pigs I had flying around–”

“Oh _god_ , Jack, don’t even think of throwing any cute furry animals into there!” Rhys grabs his arm.

“Aw, but think of how they’d all be popping like little balloons–”

“I _will_ puke on you,” Rhys warns him. 

Judging from the shade of his face, the threat sounds real enough. (More real than Jack’s, anyway; in the ranking of ‘animals at risk of disembowelment by Jack’, guinea pigs are filed right at the bottom these days, alongside cats.) 

“Here.” Rhys punches a hurried command into the console, and produces a cardboard cutout of a psycho. “This will do.”

With the containment field cleared of the undetonated, disappointed ordnance, they set up the targets, marking some of them with the digital signature and giving the rest a basic shield to soak up some of the splash.

“Here we go again…”

The slingshot, the arc, the pause for eridium – and this time, the newly-spawned grenades head straight for the marked targets and detonate on impact. The unmarked targets remain standing, untouched.

“ _That_ ’s the stuff!” Jack claps his hand onto Rhys’s shoulder. “Now all we need to– hang on.” He squints in the direction of the containment field. “Why is stuff still exploding in there? _What’s_ the stuff that’s still exploding in there?”

“I’m… not sure…” Rhys tilts his head to the right, like he tends to when using the ECHO eye to zoom or investigate. “Getting a closer look now. Uh, focusing on that is really hard for some reason.”

“Yeah, what…” Jack shakes his head, tries to reach into the code and see inside the containment field that’s rapidly morphing into a hemisphere of churning fire. No use. Even his simulated optical vision is starting to blur around the edges. He tightens his grip on Rhys’s shoulder just to stay upright. “What the hell…”

“Something– ... –ong in– ... –re.” Rhys’s voice is breaking up like a glitching radio stuck underwater. “–ck. Are yo– –kay? _Jack_!” 

It _is_ like being underwater. Pressure from the inside heavy and hot, pressure from the outside heavy and cold, sinking deeper and deeper, no air, _no air_ , but Jack doesn’t _need_ air ‘cause he doesn’t breathe in here, so it’s not oxygen he’s running out of, but what, what what what is it, can’t think, can’t _think_ – 

You’re a program, Jack. You don’t think. You process. You don’t need oxygen. You need–

Memory.

“Lift the field,” Jack gasps, still clinging to Rhys’s shoulder with one hand, grabbing at his own face with the other. He hasn’t had a migraine for as long as he hasn’t had a body, but he remembers what they’re like. This one’s gotta be the kind of migraine that migraines get. “Lift it, then get out.”

“Tell me what’s happening!” Rhys’s voice cuts through the underwater barrier, the tripping static. “I’m not leaving until you do!”

Jack grits his teeth. “Just… do as you’re told. The longer you wait– fuck. The worse it gets.”

“Then tell me fast.”

Jack swallows whatever seems to be blocking his throat. It honestly feels so much like swallowing his own eyeballs, he’s surprised he can still see out of them. Well, barely. Rhys’s face is swimming in his vision, the yellow of his ECHO eye a spike of sharpened sunlight that jabs straight into Jack’s eye and then brain. So that’s what a lobotomy feels like. Makes sense if you think about it.

“Jack! Answer! Now!”

“Memory leak. Runaway reaction.”

“Runaway re–” A lightning flurry of thoughts flashes behind Rhys’s eyes. “The grenades are still splitting?”

“Yeah. Gone exponential. C’mon. Do the thing.” _And for the love of… something, do it before I collapse on the fucking–_

Rhys’s shoulder glitches out of Jack’s grip. Jack’s knees hit the floor a moment later. 

_Fuck._

“I can’t despawn it.” The panicked edge to Rhys’s voice is slicing Jack’s hearing into ribbons. “Jack! Why can’t I despawn it?”

“Not ‘nuff mem’ry. Gridlock. G’tout.”

“Right, yes, I’m gonna get out and fix it from the outsi–”

“JUST FUCKING LISTEN, RHYS!” Jack claws himself back to his feet, grabbing handfuls of Rhys’s clothes, anchors himself by Rhys’s shoulders. “There’s no memory left! You’ll free up some scraps if you get out, but that won’t be enough. This place is stuck! It needs a hard reboot! Lift containment, place goes boom, safety kicks in, got it?”

Rhys stares at him. “Are… are you gonna be okay?”

“‘Course I am.” And with some luck, it’ll just _be_ a hard reboot, not a factory reset kinda thing. _But don’t tell the kid that._ “Now do the thing, cupcake.”

Should he kiss Rhys, just in case? Then again, the chances of the reboot going wrong vs. chances of throwing up on Rhys’s face… yeah, maybe not. Would make for a shitty last memory if it all goes bad.

“Okay.” Rhys throws his arms around him. “Containment field gone in three, two–”

“What the fuck?” Jack tries to shake Rhys off, but fails, despite the ridiculous hug being made up entirely of shaking limbs. “Idiot! You don’t wanna be in here when it–”

The sonic boom drowns out the rest of Jack’s words. The fireball that comes after drowns out the rest of Jack.

It’s not… painful, not as such. Nothing like the memory-leak induced migraine-slash- lobotomy, anyway. If Jack had to pick an adjective with which to describe the reboot, it’d be… ‘disorienting.’ Everything is everywhere and nowhere, the mid-stage of a small universe’s Big Bounce, and then time and space resume with a jerk like a momentarily stalled escalator.

And yeah, none of that hurts. Not until Jack opens his eyes, anyway, and the white ambient light of the virtual space hits him like a truckful of shovels. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looks around. The space has been remade; the state of his desk suggests that the last restore point was some time this morning. Not too bad.

What about him, though? Jack prods at his memories, looking for the most recent ones. The grenade experiment, psycho cardboard cutouts, replication error. It gets fuzzy after that, remembered waves of nausea launching brand new ones, but he _thinks_ he managed to explain to Rhys what was going on and–

Rhys.

Jack paws at the air to summon the chat window.

_HJack69: RHYS_

_HJack69: U OK???_

The response comes at least ten whole fucking seconds later, by which time Jack is already scrambling at the holo projector interface.

_Atlas1: yeah_

_Atlas1: fine_

_Atlas1: Threw up a bit. But no lasting damage. I think. You?_

Jack leaves the projector interface alone, makes the nearest piece of furniture teleport to him, and sits down on it.

_HJack69: oh yeah_

_HJack69: fine and dandy_

_HJack69: i mean, i think i’ve got pandoran sea urchins where my eyes used to be_

_HJack69: but aside from that_

_Atlas1: Thx for the nightmares._

_Atlas1: So. ‘Live a little’, huh._

Jack chuckles, sending waves of pain radiating from his eye. He digs the heel of his palm into the eye socket (the left one; ahh, just like the good old days), waves his other hand at the chat screen.

_HJack69: nothing like a little dying to make you feel alive, i always say_

_Atlas1: How’s the place? Still in one piece?_

_HJack69: yeah, bounced right back_

_HJack69: so here’s what i think went wrong_

_HJack69: when i rigged the mirv with the homing routine, i told the frags to explode on impact, but i must’ve referenced the first explosion subroutine, the one that does the initial spawn_

_Atlas1: Jack._

_Atlas1: Jack._

_Atlas1: I’d love to hear the post-mortem, but if I don’t lie down for a bit, someone will be doing one on me before the end of today._

_HJack69: uggggghh_

_HJack69: fine_

_HJack69: take your time_

Truth be told, Jack could use a lie-down himself. Just till the world stops tilting. The object he’s sat down on turns out to be the coffee table. Jack turns it into a bed and pulls his feet up. One eye open, he thinks at the chat screen.

_HJack69: you know_

_HJack69: you wouldn’t be so sick now if you weren’t an idiot_

_HJack69: the fuck were you thinking, staying here for the blast?_

_Atlas1: Eh._

_Atlas1: Something cheesy._

_HJack69: yeah_

_HJack69: thought as much_

Neither shaking his head nor rolling his eyes seems like a good idea right now. Jack settles for another muttered assessment of Rhys’s stellar display of pragmatism and self-preservation, and lets simulated gravity take him.

* * *

_days since last incident: 39_

Some days, thinks Rhys, being a CEO is the best job in the world. Other days, it’s a job like many others, with its pros and cons. And on some, well– 

“...third raid in as many weeks. This situation has already soured our relationship with the neighboring towns, and if this continues, this might open us up to potential reputational damage...”

– on some days, you have to spend an hour listening to a lawyer go on about something that could’ve been told in ten minutes, ten sentences or, if you have better things to do with your life than waste it in meeting, ten freaking _words_.

“Okay, let me see if I got it right.” Rhys spots a break in Cal’s monologue and rushes in, headfirst. “Some bandits based near Old Haven have been attacking civilians.” _See? Ten words! Was that so hard?_ “And _Atlas_ is being blamed for it, somehow?”

“Not _blamed_ , strictly speaking, but there’s definitely some taint by association, and an argument can be made that because Old Haven has been revitalized largely due to Atlas operating out of here and–”

“Bup-bup-bup.” Rhys raises a hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there. First of all, if those bandits were operating from actual Old Haven, that would be something to worry about – purely as a security concern – but you’re talking about ‘taint by association’ just because they happen to be in the area? I don’t know how they do things back on Dionysus, but this is Pandora, Cal. _Everything_ is tainted by association with _something_ around here. And secondly, yes, Old Haven probably wouldn’t have been repopulated without Atlas… but we’re not actually running the town. We don’t provide governance, we don’t provide public services, we’re just… here. Sure, there _is_ some extra infrastructure because we’re operating here, and people have come to view the Atlas compound as something of a hub here… But Atlas’s actual responsibility starts and stops with Atlas. We’re responsible for our people, our hardware, and what goes on _inside_ the compound walls. Legally. Which is something I didn’t think I’d have to explain to, well, _a lawyer_?”

Something nudges the back of Rhys’s left hand. Glancing down, he finds a coffee cup sitting on the conference table next to him. Next to it, a note: _want me to take over?_

Rhys stifles a smile, tired though it is. His Legal department may have the efficiency of a CL4P-TP with a flat tire, but at least his PA is worth his weight in eridium.

He accepts the coffee gratefully, but turns down Drew’s offer of help with the smallest of head shakes.

“Okay, Cal.” Rhys takes a sip of coffee, holds the bittersweet taste on his tongue for a second. “I think I’ve got the gist of the problem. What’s your proposed solution? In twenty words or less.”

It takes Cal significantly more than twenty words to describe a plan that really could’ve been summarized in _one_ (‘patrols’), but he seems to at least make an effort to be succinct. Rhys lets the guy talk while he lets his own mind wander.

It’s true that Atlas _isn’t_ running Old Haven. But be that as it may, there is _also_ some truth to the idea that his company is now being increasingly associated with this town. Which… well, it’s not a _bad_ thing, because there are worse places on Pandora to be associated with, but… Yes, Pandora, that’s the issue. He’s never had any interest in Atlas being associated with any part of Pandora.

While making a believable show of still listening, Rhys summons a handful of video memories from his ECHO eye’s log. Towering structures, sprawling compounds, spires of buildings taller than you thought possible stabbing into the mauve sky above them.

_Meridian._

Run-down, dilapidated, a shadow of its former self… but look through that shadow just right, and you can see the glimmer of its future. The future that old Atlas gave up on. The future that _Rhys’s_ Atlas will bring to life, as soon as he has the resources to reclaim the past.

And a reliable way to get himself and those resources over to Promethea. At least more reliable than what he’s got right now.

(He _could_ talk to Jack about it. What he’s got right now is, if not actual Vault technology, then, at the very least, Vault adjacent. And Jack wasn’t lying when he said that when it comes to Eridian artefacts, he’s one of the best informed people Rhys can hope to find. What damage _can_ he do with that information, anyway? He’s incorporeal. He’s stuck inside his computer. He’s–)

(He’s Handsome Jack. The real question is, what damage _can’t_ he do with _any_ piece of additional information, access, _leverage_ that you give him?..)

Focus, Rhys tells himself. Don’t rush it. Don’t jump the gun. One thing at a time. Smart targeting first. Promethea… after.

But if he has to take one thing at a time, the current thing isn’t going to be more of this interminable meeting.

Rhys reaches for the earlier note from Drew, scribbles an updated answer under his question – _DO IT_ – and leaves the meeting in his PA’s capable hands.

Back in his office, Rhys finds Jack, who, in spite of being a hologram, is putting a solid effort into wearing a hole in Rhys’s carpet.

“Where the _hell_ have you been, kid? You said you’d be gone for an hour–”

“You were a CEO once, you know how meetings get.” Rhys heads for his desk, walking around Jack as he does, despite the urge to walk right through him, because he doesn’t _need_ the man’s _attitude_ shoved in his face right now. “And I don’t have access to old Hyperion’s hiring pool, so I can’t just shoot everyone in the face as soon as I get bored.”

Jack crosses his arms. “Well, lemme give you a bit of advice, Rhysie. Something I learned back when I _was_ a CEO. You’ll always be needed in more places than you can be, and the only two known solutions to that problem are: one, delegation, two, hard drugs. So why don’t you pick which one of these you’re gonna rely on to get you through the rest of this week, so we can finally get some _real_ work done?”

“Give me a fucking break, Jack.” Rhys sinks into his chair. Hard drugs may be taking it too far, but he could sure go for some of those dopamine injectors Jack used to have in that ridiculous throne of his. Dopamine _and_ caffeine, maybe. “I’ve been doing real work since I got up at five a.m. today. I’ve been dealing with logistics, finances, design, marketing, and politics masquerading as a legal issue. I don’t have it in me right now to also deal with–” A bitchy impatient asshole. “With your–” Fucking self-righteous, better-CEO-than-thou bullshit. “Just– just give me a moment, will you?”

That’s all Rhys needs right now: a moment to catch his breath, get his thoughts in order, go through his echo-mails to make sure there’s nothing there that can’t wait until tomorrow. And then they _can_ get on with tracking down a reliable supply of eridium for the smart targeting tech. The ‘real’ work. As opposed to all the fun and games and busywork and child’s play that Rhys has to do on a daily basis to keep his freaking company running.

And Jack _can_ give him a moment, right? He’s not an _actual_ monster– okay, fine, the jury’s still out on that, but at least he’s not an _idiot_. And he’s got more in his people skills toolbox than insults or threats of summary execution. And he can see that Rhys has been working his ass off, so Rhys _deserves_ a fucking break – he can see that, right? Right?

“‘Gimme a break, Jack, gimme a moment, Jack…’ What else you want? A cookie and a blowjob?”

...Right.

Rhys drags his eyes from the endless void of his inbox to the hologram of Jack, standing in the middle of his office. A selection of responses floats to the front of his brain.

_That an offer?_

_Sure, give me thirty seconds to log in._

_Yeah, and we can skip the cookie._

Saying any of these out loud would result in– Actually, at this point, Rhys has no idea what that might result in. More fighting, probably. One or both of them storming out, maybe. Who the fuck knows, there might even be an actual blowjob. He’s way too tired to either properly appreciate the mental image, or even be appropriately mortified by it.

“Yeah, that sounds great, but I don’t have two-and-a-half trillion on me.”

The silence that follows is loud enough that Rhys almost finds himself wishing he’d gone for one of the risque-slash-stupid options offered up by his brain. Then again, none of the potential outcomes of those featured seeing Handsome Jack rendered speechless.

“Okay, you know what?” Jack says, eventually. “Just this once, cupcake, I think I’m gonna go ahead and give you what you want.”

...What.

“Uh… Um.” Rhys blinks. Then blinks again as Jack stalks towards the holo projector discreetly mounted on the side of a metal book shelf. “What– What’re you doing?”

“What does it look like? Giving you a fucking break,” Jack says without turning around, and discorporates a moment later.

 _Oh_. Well. Yes. Of course. _That_ makes sense. That _is_ what Rhys asked him, after all.

Rhys waits a few seconds to make sure he’s alone in the room, then drags both his hands down his face. Okay. _Okay_. For however long until Jack changes his mind and storms back in with more sarcasm, criticism and _really fucking unnecessary innuendo_ , Rhys actually has a chance to focus on something. Time to get his head back on straight and dive into the latest intel on the few promising mines at the very edge of the Eridium Blight.

(He’s not going to lie, though: Jack’s suggestion for how to deal with the increasing amounts of everyday chaos is looking more attractive by the second.)

(...The ‘hard drugs and delegation’ suggestion, that is. Not the other thing.)

* * *

_days since last incident: 42_

_Atlas1: Jack. You there?_

_Atlas1: Sorry, that was stupid. Of course you’re there._

_HJack69: ‘sup, cupcake?_

_Atlas1: I, uh. I think we’re kind of. Fucked._

_HJack69: what happened? lilith found out you’re harboring a handsome dead guy and is marching here with an army?_

_Atlas1: GOD. NO._

_Atlas1: Don’t even joke like that._

_HJack69: so how are we fucked?_

_Atlas1: I think I’ve hit a dead end with eridium. I’ve followed every lead, I’ve exhausted every option, I’ve made promises, given bribes, called in favors. I got nothing._

_Atlas1: After you… died, Hyperion stopped mining in most of the Blight. Kept a handful of mines and abandoned the rest. And I mean abandoned. They didn’t properly mothball or shut things down. Just left everything sitting. Open mines, equipment, the works._

_HJack69: for fuck sake_

_HJack69: imbeciles_

_Atlas1: Those mines are totally unusable now, aren’t they? They looked it._

_HJack69: after sitting in the open for 5+ years? kinda_

_HJack69: i mean, you could reclaim them. but that’ll take investment, the kind you don’t have rn_

_HJack69: so what about the ones Hyperion kept?_

_Atlas1: Brick wall. Dead end. Some have been mined dry. The rest are guarded by a private army. Could be Maliwan. Probably Maliwan. But they’re showing no colors. At least none I could see in the feeds before they shot every one of my drones out of the sky._

_HJack69: yeah_

_HJack69: sounds like maliwan_

_HJack69: also, rip dumpy?_

_Atlas1: No, Dumpy’s fine. But._

_Atlas1: Jack._

_HJack69: well?_

_Atlas1: I don’t know what to do next. I really don’t know._

_Atlas1: I could probably talk to Katagawa, set up some kind of deal… But he’ll want to know why Atlas needs eridium, there’ll be all kinds of strings attached, and after the contract I had him sign last time we met, he’s not going to go easy on me._

_HJack69: nah_

_HJack69: fuck that guy_

_HJack69: well_

_HJack69: maybe don’t_

_HJack69: don’t bring him into this, is what i’m saying_

_Atlas1: So what do we do?_

_HJack69: step one, stop running around in a panic like a headless cl4-tp_

_HJack69: step two, aka the classic_

_HJack69: Handsome Jack saves your ass_

_Atlas1: How are you gonna do that?_

_HJack69: same way i do everything else_

_HJack69: with my signature heroic flair and effortless style_

_Atlas1: Jack. I’m serious. What’s your plan?_

_HJack69: look_

_HJack69: i still got some old databanks leftover from when i was Helios_

_HJack69: gotta be something there we can use_

_HJack69: gimme a few hours to parse ‘em_

_Atlas1: Okay. Let me know if you find anything._

_Atlas1: Thanks._

_HJack69: hey, quick q_

_HJack69: why’re you doing this by text?_

_HJack69: would’ve been faster to log in and talk by this point_

_Atlas1: Well. I don’t know what’s your policy on shooting the messenger._

_HJack69: strongly in favor_

_HJack69: it sends a message, ya know?_

_HJack69: but_

_HJack69: there are additional variables_

_Atlas1: Such as?_

_HJack69: there’s a complex formula assessing the messenger’s chance of survival, weighing the degree of disaster against the prettiness of the messenger_

_Atlas1: So based on that, what’s the worst news I can get away with giving you? On a scale from ‘a skag ate your stress ball’ to ‘we’re under siege by Maliwan’._

_HJack69: hmm_

_HJack69: i’m looking at the formula now, and think we’re gonna need a broader disaster range_

_HJack69: ‘cause so far, the rest of the values i’m working with are really skewing the probability in your favor_

_HJack69: why don’t you think of some worse case scenarios while i parse the data_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Your feedback gives me life and Honestly Makes A Real Difference, so if you like it, put a comment on it, darlings.
> 
> Also, guess what: the third part of this set is actually very close to being done, so the next update is coming pretty soon. With some luck, in just a few days!
> 
> Meanwhile, if you want to see sneak previews of the next chapter or maybe even catch an occasional writing stream, hit me up on twitter [@CaffeinatedOwl1](https://twitter.com/CaffeinatedOwl1)  
> 


	19. Workplace Hazards - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has always had every hallmark of a star. Powerful. Radiant. Inexorable in his gravity.
> 
> None of that has changed. But never before has Rhys felt so acutely like he could reach out towards that searing blaze and be neither scorched nor crushed, but warmed, welcomed, drawn into a sure and steady orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.
> 
> * * *

_days since last incident: 44_

“Ja– _hzzt_ –ck!” Rhys launches into speech before fully incorporating in the simulation, his voice glitching like a skipping record. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, barreling onward while the rest of his projection coalesces around a core of sheer vocal enthusiasm. “Your intel panned out! I found it! A giant stockpile of eridium, at the exact coordinates you gave me!”

_Ah, fuck._

Jack summons a grin to match the kid’s. Which really shouldn’t be taking him all this effort. ‘Cause a giant stockpile of eridium is exactly what they need to start making the Atlas smart targeting guns, which will mark the first major milestone in Jack’s delivering on his promise to Rhys, opening the door for Rhys to start working towards delivering on his promise to Jack. So, in the simplest possible terms, Rhys finding this stockpile brings Jack a whole lot closer to being alive again.

But god _damn_ and shit and fucking fuck, couldn’t the kid have found any other pile of eridium on Pandora? _Literally_ any other?

(He couldn’t. He tried. You _know_ he tried.)

(Couldn’t he have tried fucking _harder_?)

Jack swallows the bile at the back of his throat. It’s not on Rhys. It’s _not_ on Rhys. Rhys finding the stockpile isn’t the problem. The problem is that fucking stockpile being there in the first place. And that… Yeah, _that_ ’s definitely not on Rhys.

Another wave of nausea swallowed, Jack keeps the grin going.

“Good job, Rhysie! Looks like we’re back in the game.” He holds up a finger. “Hey, but you did as I told you, right? Didn’t go there in person? Kept things discreet?”

The question is largely perfunctory, ‘cause of course Rhysie didn’t go there in person, ‘cause had Rhysie gone to that facility in person, he’d– Actually, hell knows what he’d do, but he definitely wouldn’t be talking to Jack the way he is now, all bright-eyed and unnecessarily pretty and vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, yes, as discreet as it gets. The probe was on board of a surveillance drone disguised as a delivery bot. One of Anshin’s. They’ve got a supply line that cuts across Thousand Cuts.” Rhys chuckles. “Guess they should rename the area Thousand And One Cuts, huh? Anyway, the drone got there without incident, launched the probe, got the data, pinged it right back to me, then self-destructed. Even if anyone watched the whole thing – not that anyone would, that area is a barren wasteland – all they’d see would be an Anshin delivery bot that strayed off course, dropped a piece of unspecified cargo in an unspecified place, then blew up.”

“And the probe? Also set to self-destruct?”

“Better. It was on a deconstruct timer. No boom, no flash, nothing to attract attention. Just literally dissolved into thin air as soon as its job was done. Come on, Jack.” Some of Rhys’s earlier bubbly excitement drains from his face. “I’m not an idiot, and your instructions were very clear.”

Yeah. They were. Some crystal clear instructions on how to find a mysteriously abandoned stockpile of eridium, oh-so-conveniently discovered in previously neglected Helios databanks barely twenty-four hours after Rhys’s own attempts to source eridium had run into a brick wall. 

Sure, Jack _could’ve_ made the whole thing less blatant, could’ve given Rhys a few dummy leads to follow before ‘stumbling across’ the real thing. But that would mean dragging it out even more. Thinking about _those coordinates_ every time he’d give Rhys the wrong ones. The coordinates, the stockpile, the– yeah, no, Jack wasn’t gonna drag it out any longer than he had to.

So, yeah, only a complete idiot would believe that Jack’s ‘discovery’ was a well-timed stroke of luck. And yet Rhys hasn’t called it out, hasn’t questioned it, hasn’t questioned _Jack_ on the matter. Which can only mean he knows _something’s_ up. Because the kid is… well, the kid is many things, but an idiot really _isn’t_ one of them. 

(Is there a chance he _has_ gone there in person? No, he couldn’t have. Not without it showing in his face now. The kid may not be an idiot, but he’s not a galaxy-class actor, either.)

“Just making sure.” Jack shrugs, noncommitment embodied. “Our history doesn’t exactly lend itself to a ‘no questions asked’ kind of deal.”

“It… doesn’t.” Rhys runs his hand through his hair. “But it does suggest that if you were going to screw me over, you’d be doing that either out of self-interest, or just to be a dick. Getting smart targeting off the ground _is_ in your best interest, because the sooner you deliver your part of the bargain, the sooner I can start on delivering mine. And while I have endless faith in your ability to be a dick, I think you’ve got enough riding on this to exercise _some_ restraint.”

...Well, damn. The kid is neither an idiot nor a galaxy-class actor, but the kid _is_ a CEO. And, between the goofy jokes and the proclivity to blush at the drop of a hat, Jack tends to forget that Rhysie can be a fucking smooth talker when he wants to be.

Jack casts around for a response, but his attempt to drag his brain into a suitably banter-friendly place overshoots and lands him deep into innuendo territory, resulting in every possible rejoinder in his mind revolving around the words ‘dick’, ‘riding’ or ‘restraint’. Which, by the wa, were far too close to each other in Rhys’s speech, and he’ll be damned if that wasn’t on fucking purpose.

“So…” Rhys continues, after Jack forfeits the verbal duel with a vague shrug. “Any suggestions on the best way to extract the eridium from that stockpile and transport it to Atlas so we can start manufacturing?”

“Yeah, about that.” Jack summons a holo screen populated by half a dozen schematics. “The prototype still has a bunch of kinks that need ironing out. What’s your afternoon like? Got time to brainstorm?”

The next two hours fly by in a blur. Rhys, buoyed by equal parts enthusiasm and confidence, is firing off potential solutions at a rate to rival a Vladoff barrel. Jack’s not in the mood to take each idea to task just for the hell of it, and only shoots down ones that he _knows_ aren’t gonna work.

Still, Rhys’s energy is infectious and bright and warm, enough so to even get past the cold sickening knot that has been stuck in Jack’s throat since yesterday. (More specifically, since he promised Rhys to find an alternative eridium source, then waited a few hours for plausibility’s sake, then typed out the coordinated from memory.)

By the end of the two hours, the knot hasn’t quite dissolved, but Jack’s grins and snarky commentary have an easier time getting around it. (And isn’t that all you can ask for, really?)

“Oh-kay!” Jack falls backwards onto a beanbag and kicks the holo screen higher up into the air with the toe of his sneaker. “Six down, two to go.”

“Hit me,” Rhys announces, tossing a unicorn stress ball from hand to hand.

“Potential barrel discoloration after prolonged use of eridium-laced ammo.”

“Can we coat the inside of the barrel with something inert enough to prevent the reaction?”

“Only if you wanna mess around with molten diamond.”

“Is that as expensive as it sounds?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, then, let’s–”

“ _Way_ more expensive than that.”

“Oh. Well, never mind. Do you think the discoloration will affect function, or is it purely an aesthetic thing?”

“Just the visual.”

“Then let’s roll with it. Put a marketing spin on the thing. People make a big deal about aged leather, wood, all that stuff, right? Let’s play the same game. We’ll talk about how no two guns will be the same, how each will age in its own unique way. Your gun is one of a kind, and all that.”

“That…” Jack spends a few seconds fleshing out the idea in his mind. “That’s fucking brilliant. Dammit, cupcake, you’re on fire today.”

“I know, right?” Rhys flings himself onto a beanbag next to Jack’s. “So what’s the last thing standing in the way of a working AEH-1 prototype? Come on, give me a _challenge_.”

“AEH?” That’s the first time Jack’s heard that acronym. “Lemme guess… Atlas – Eridium – Hell-I-hope-this-works?”

“Hah…”

The pause after Rhys’s chuckle is long enough to be interesting. Jack tilts his eye in the direction of the kid’s face just in time to see a faint blush lighting up behind the pale skin.

“Actually…” Rhys keeps his eyes fixed on the floating holo screen, decidedly _not_ looking at Jack. The saturation setting on the blush creeps a few notches to the right. “The H is kind of a... placeholder for now? I’ve been trying to come up with something, but nothing really fits, but I still want to include something there, because it just feels wrong not to, you know?”

“I… genuinely don’t. You’re gonna have to say some more words, kiddo. In sentences, if you’re feeling generous. What’s the placeholder for?”

“Something for– Well, not _for_ , but– Oh, fuck...” 

“Just spit it out!” Jack laughs. What the _hell_ has gotten Rhysie so fucking flustered?

Rhys finally turns to look his way. “Something to do with you.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“I mean… It can stand for Hyperion. If you like.”

Hmm. Does he?

“Eh, I’ll be honest with you, Rhysie, I dunno how I feel about the whole ‘in memoriam’ thing.”

“That’s not what I– I mean, wouldn’t you bring it back? Once you’re, well, back? Get Hyperion up and running again? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Jack grins. “Don’t tell me _you_ haven’t thought about slapping me with some killer non-compete that’d make me keep my business at least two galaxies away from yours.”

“I might’ve.” Rhys’s color is most of the way back to normal. Something that’s most of the way to a smirk lurks in the corner of his mouth.

“And?” Jack pins him down with a gaze, watches the smirk bloom fully into existence, wrestles back the impulse to kiss it right off Rhys’s face. To see if Rhys’s mouth tastes just as he remembers, or if he’s been replaying that one kiss in his mind so much he’s rewritten his memory of it.

“And then I thought it’s gonna be much more fun to see what you do. You want to bring back Hyperion? Go ahead. Do what you want. Atlas can take it.”

For at least fifteen of the subsequent seconds, there’s a very real possibility that Atlas, as represented by its CEO, is about to.

They’re still lying each on his own beanbag, but right next to each other, so basically side by side, their faces so _fucking_ close, barely a foot between them, and it would take Jack just one motion to close the gap between the two of them, just grab Rhys and drag him on top of him, mouths, chests, hips crushed together, get his hands all over Rhys’s neck and shoulders and back and ass and as far down those ridiculous legs as he can reach, then roll them over back onto Rhys’s beanbag, and keep him pinned under Jack, _for_ Jack, to kiss and touch and taste and–

“So how about it?”

“Mh?”

“You okay with the new product line name?”

(Focus, Jack.)

“Hmm. AEH...” Jack turns the acronym over in his mouth. It’s not bad. Even if it doesn’t taste anywhere as good as any of the other options on his mind. (Focus, Jack.) “Atlas – Eridium – Hyperion.” ...Agonizingly, Excruciatingly Hard. (Focus on _something else_ , Jack _._ ) “You do realize that you won’t be able to tell anyone what the E and H stand for? Be prepared for some smartasses coming up with their own ideas.”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it. We can always float some unofficial title like, uh, Efficacious Homing. Or something. So are you on board or not?”

“Eh.” Jack pauses. After no response for a few seconds, he continues, “I guess I don’t _especially hate_ it or anything.”

Rhys rolls his eyes. “You see, I _got_ it the first time. And you should’ve stopped at the ‘eh’. That would’ve been subtle. Now it just sounds like you’re trying too hard.”

“I haven’t been subtle in any of my lives, Rhysie, and I’ve no intention of starting now. Anyway.” Jack nods at the holo screen. “We’ve still got one snafu to clear up before the working prototype.”

Rhys turns to lie on his back again to read the screen, hands folded behind his head. “ _Potential homing protocol vulnerability, with increased risks in a multiple-product scenario_. You mean, how do we make sure that if more than one person has a smart targeting piece, their bullets don’t get confused about the tracer tag?”

“Exactly. ‘Cause if two guys armed with an Atlas walk into a room, and A tags B, and B’s targeting locks onto the wrong tracer…”

“...then we might as well change every promo to say _Atlas: You’re Just as Likely to Shoot Yourself_. But we’ve already addressed this, way back. Every gun has a unique digital signature.”

“That just eliminates accidental target confusion. Not malicious.”

“Jack. I wrote the tracer-payload matching protocol myself. It’s unhackable.”

“Mm, I’m gonna stop you right there, cupcake. Nothing’s unhackable.”

“Oh yeah?” Rhys half-turns back to face him. “Nothing at all?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“What about the firewall on this?” Rhys taps his cybernetic port. “If this _wasn’t_ unhackable, would you really be chilling here with me, and not, say, strutting my body through the Atlas compound?”

“Rhysie…” Jack rolls over to his side. “Do you really think that your firewall writing skills are the only thing standing in the way of me getting–” he reaches across the short gap between them and traces a fingertip around the port on Rhys’s temple– “in here?”

Rhys swallows, visibly, but doesn’t shy away. _Almost_ doesn’t flinch.

“Maybe not. But I know you haven’t tried to hack your way into my head.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Well…” Rhys shifts further onto his side, facing Jack fully again, trapping the tips of Jack’s fingers between his temple and the velvety beanbag surface underneath. He gives Jack the sweetest smile. “You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?”

(Oh, shit.)

This is it, thinks Jack. This is officially too much. All of it. 

The smile. The thinly-veiled threat. The glint in Rhys’s eye.

The quickened pulse Jack can feel under his fingers. The way Rhys still doesn’t make the slightest effort to move away from Jack’s hand.

(This is happening.)

All he has to do is let his hand slide to the side of Rhys’s face. So simply, so naturally. Then lean in. Catch Rhys’s slightly parted lips with his mouth.

(Do it, Jack.)

Jack can see it all in his mind. Feel the touch of Rhys’s skin under his hand. Taste Rhys’s mouth on his.

(Why aren’t you doing it, Jack?)

“As I was saying…” Jack pulls his hand back. (What the hell is wrong with you, Jack?) “Digi-sig is a good start, but we need a fall-back option. ‘Cause the stakes are way too high on this. You just... can’t afford to get it wrong.”

(...You’re a coward, Jack.)

“Yeah.” Rhys gives a little sigh, leans up on his elbow, sits up, eyes back on the holo screen above them. “I, uh… I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. But we’ve got some time to figure it out, right? We can both give it some thought.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack nods. “Sounds good. Let’s do that.”

(Fucking. Coward.)

* * *

_days since last incident: 47_

A knock on the door of Rhys’s office comes less than a minute after he wraps up his chat with Sasha – or something that had started out as one, before quickly devolving into a chaotic multi-way conference call with almost everyone he knew in Hollow Point. Which meant that instead spending his several-minute lunch talking to a friend, Rhys ended up fielding Fiona’s demands of free samples ‘for old times’ sake’, August’s casual requests for discounts on weapons for security at _The_ _Purple Skag_ (‘it’s not like you can’t afford it, rich boy’), and a million and a half questions from Janey Springs about every aspect of the new material reclamation tech at Atlas (which Rhys has only ever told Sasha about, but Sasha would’ve told Fiona, and… yeah).

At least Athena wasn’t there to interrogate him about the connection between Rhys’s Atlas and old Atlas, the exact nature of the relationship between Rhys and old Atlas, and why in six galaxies, of all companies to reclaim and restore, Rhys had chosen Atlas. It’s not that Rhys hasn’t got the answers as such, but he’s got a nagging suspicion that a repetition of ‘it’s complicated’ isn’t going to fly very well.

A reprise of the knock on the door draws a groan from Rhys. Only a small one, though, because the clear _dash – dot – dot_ pattern indicates Drew.

Rhys lifts his head from the back of the couch, but leaves his feet up on the coffee table, socks and all.

“Yeah, come in.”

Drew manifests in the sitting area of his office so quickly and quietly, Rhys can’t help but wonder if his PA has the ability to phase through walls. And read minds, based on the lunch he hands to Rhys: the exact thing Rhys had spent the last ten minutes of the ECHO call thinking about. A giant box of noodles from the stall outside the Atlas compound, slathered in a thick and sticky sauce so delicious that he never, ever wants to know what it’s made of.

While Drew goes over the rest of the week’s schedule, Rhys dives into the noodle box face first, supplying vague grunts of approval to the planned items. He can already see the bottom of the box when his ECHO communicator gives a _plink_ – quiet, but distinctive from the regular text message _plonk_.

“Then on Friday, we have–”

_plink_

“–the Vladof call about–”

_plink_

“–the _other_ barrel they might want to collab on–”

_plink_

“–now that Maliwan has exclusivity on the double-barre–”

_plink-plink-plink_

Drew clears his throat. “Do you need to take that?”

“Argh. Sorry about that.” Rhys mutes the notification sound and turns the comm screen side down. “Go on, the Vladof call?”

Rhys drags his focus back to work talk: an uphill struggle, because he doesn’t need to see the messages to know who they’re from. He doubts, for the thirty-fourth time in the past two days, whether routing Jack’s chat to his ECHO communicator was a mistake. 

Not from the security standpoint: the data skimmer on the cable between the twinned monitors outputting the chat is set up with draconian limits on transfer rate and byte-length. Meaning that even if Jack managed to smuggle bits of his code alongside the chat messages somehow, it would take him weeks to get anything workable together. Plus, those smuggled fragments would have to stay somewhere before being reassembled – but every piece of data received from the chat skimmer gets wiped from Rhys’s ECHO comm after 30 minutes, while the newly-upgraded firewall makes sure nothing travels through some unauthorized uplink in the background. Plus, let’s not forget that in order to even try to pull off any of that, Jack would need to be aware of the new feature in the first place.

So, no, it’s not security concerns that have been making Rhys second-guess his idea of letting Jack’s messages _plink_ to his handheld. It’s the sheer magnitude of Jack’s distraction potential, and his atrocious trigger discipline on the _Send_ button.

At least, thinks Rhys, he’s stopped himself short of setting up a way to _respond_ to the chat from his comm. Because even if he double-, triple- and quadruple-checked everything to make sure there’s no _technological_ vulnerability, it would only be so long before Jack said something Rhys simply _had_ to respond to right away, at a time when he’s very obviously out of office. And just like that, Jack would know their chat is no longer limited to the desktop monitors. And that… wouldn’t be great.

(Almost as not-great as the tiny warm flutter in Rhys’s stomach at the idea of being able to randomly text Jack whenever he wants, like he might message Vaughn, or Yvette, or even Sasha.)

(Because texting Jack _wouldn’t_ be like messaging Vaughn. Or Yvette. Or even Sasha.)

With noodles devoured and schedule approved, Rhys puts his boots back on while Drew circles back with coffee. He then exercises his already audibly strained patience by waiting to be alone in the office before even reaching for the comm. 

Maybe he could even leave it on the coffee table and check his echo-mails, first– 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what is he even trying to prove here? Rhys grabs the ECHO and flips it screen up – fast enough to fumble and nearly launch it across the office.

(You see, _this_ is why you’re not allowed the ‘chat from anywhere’ feature. You’re already acting like a college kid with a crush. Cut yourself any slack, and the next thing you know, you’ll be texting him from bed.)

(Which… has the potential of turning into a whole different thing.)

...Anyway. Rhys navigates to the chat window, scrolls to the top of unread messages. The very first one sends his stomach into a barrel roll.

_HJack69: i got it_

“It” can only mean one thing. The homing protocol vulnerability, or, to use Jack’s words, the Stop Shooting Yourself problem. Ever since Jack’s insistence that nothing is unhackable, Rhys has run multiple models to estimate the probability of a malicious takeover of the targeting system. None of them returned an answer he liked. 

Because sure, no gun is flawless. One in however many thousand pieces can jam, one in however many hundred thousand shots can backfire. But to allow a critical vulnerability in the one feature that is _the_ selling point of the upcoming Atlas weapons? As far as Rhys is concerned, the only acceptable probability of that is zero. And he’s yet to run a test that returns that result.

Breath caught in his throat, Rhys scrolls down the messages.

_HJack69: i think, anyway_

_HJack69: running a simulation_

_HJack69: looking good…_

_HJack69: getting there..._

_HJack69: FUCK YEAH_

_HJack69: i’m a goddamn genius_

_HJack69: GOD_

_HJack69: DAMN_

_HJack69: GENIUS_

_HJack69: get your ass in here, i gotta show you the things_

_HJack69: cupcake_

_HJack69: RHYS_

_HJack69: where are you?_

_HJack69: UGH, freaking killing me, babe_

_HJack69: no, seriously_

_HJack69: i might actually die if you don’t get here soon_

_HJack69: crushed by the sheer mass of my awesomeness going unappreciated_

_HJack69: my demise will be on your hands_

_HJack69: so get over here already_

_HJack69: Rhysieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_

While Rhys all but sprints to the side room that houses Jack’s computer, the last message keeps lengthening, filling the screen with line after line of the letter E. 

He grabs the keyboard and punches in a quick ‘ _on my way_ ’, in the hope of avoiding an assault on his hearing the moment he spawns into the simulation, then guides the VR interface to his neural port.

(In the split second of darkness after the familiar metal click behind Rhys’s eyes, it occurs to Rhys that this is the first time he’s logging into the simulation since installing the chat skimmer. So if something _had_ changed, if Jack _is_ up to something, if there _is_ some kind of trap waiting for Rhys, some kind of scheme afoot that requires him to show up at a precisely orchestrated moment…)

(Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he jammed something into his cybernetics without thinking things all the way through. Nor, strictly speaking, the second.)

Then the ambient whiteness of the simulation fades in, and the virtual world solidifies around Rhys, and he sees Jack: pacing through a sea of floating schematics, walls of code and translucent holograms of gun components.

For a heartbeat, Rhys is thrown back in time. To the moment a few months ago, when he first saw Jack after reactivating the ECHO eye, when he incorporated into the sim to find his painstakingly designed virtual apartment exploded into pieces and charting chaotic orbits around Handsome Jack, their, and everyone else’s, natural center of gravity.

But this time, instead of the debris of an apartment blasted asunder on a whim and launched into utter chaos, Jack is surrounded by a gallery, no, a _symphony_ of design, every bit of it curated, crafted, intentional. The sheer energy of creation in this moment, just as... cosmic as the exhilarated destruction Rhys had witnessed before.

Same deity. Different mode.

Another thing is different about today’s visit. Jack is actually wearing some clothes this time: jeans and a yellow Hyperion sweater. But watching Jack like this, dressed down from his usual layered outfit, Rhys can’t help but feel that somehow, clothes or not, he’s being allowed to see so much more than before.

Rhys doesn’t know if he makes a sound to give away his presence, or simply gets noticed – but either way, Jack stops mid-pace and turns to him. 

“Oh, there you are!”

The look on Jack’s face launches Rhys's insides into a whole new acrobatics routine. An expression of sheer... jubilation that makes it easy to believe that seeing Rhys is the best thing that’s happened this week, _at the very least,_ to this virtual deity of creation, to this natural center of every room’s gravity, to Handsome Jack, to... _Jack_.

“Yeah, I–” Rhys stammers, his brain still stuck at the perfect midpoint of the two conflicting desires to either worship at Jack’s feet or grab his face and kiss him. He wrestles his skidding thoughts into cooperation and reason and a facsimile of human speech. “I was in a meeting. You figured out a thing?”

“Not just _a_ thing, cupcake! _The_ thing! _All_ the things! C’mere!” 

Jack covers the distance between them in a few long strides, grabs Rhys by the shoulder and herds him towards the floating sea of holograms and code. 

“It’s all here, and it all _works_ , and did I mention I’m a goddamn genius? _Argh_ , okay, okay, breathe, Jack– oh, wait, I don’t _need_ to breathe! Awesome! Anyway. Lemme show you the things. And do save your questions till the end of the presentation, ‘mkay? You’ve done your part, so lemme just lay all this out, and you just stand there and be the prettiest rubber duck the universe has ever seen, will ya?”

Rhys swallows and drags his eyes from Jack’s face to the schematics in front of them. “Deal.”

“Right, let’s walk through the whole thing, start to finish. Step one: happy customer buys a shiny new Atlas weapon.” Jack reaches through the holograms to grab a full-color drawing of an assembled AEH-1 prototype, taps it with a fingertip to cause a shower of sparkles and dollar signs to briefly swirl around it. “Step two: happy customer gets into a firefight. Step three: time to use the much-advertised smart targeting feature…”

Two thumbs and two forefingers mimed into a frame, Jack zooms the imaginary lens, blowing up the part of the drawing with the gun’s grip and receiver.

“So Mr. Happy Customer presses the button right he-e-ere to fire a tracer shot, a.k.a. literally the one time when they’ll need to aim – and even that will be easier with the aim assist, of course… Tracer shot comes from _this_ special little extra magazine – a generous, but not too generous number of tracer ammo clips included with the weapons purchase… And here–” Jack swipes in a close-up of an exploded view– “we have our special bullet made from mostly eridium and code, inside the thinnest shell of the stable eridium-aluminum alloy. Yup, the same one you were having so much trouble _not_ poking your tweezers through when we were playing with the Singularities. Just enough of it to keep the tracer round intact until it hits. So that was step… three? Now, where did I put that thing...”

Jack sifts through a few layers of floating displays, then retrieves a 3D holographic model of the gun, wraps his fingers around the translucent grip, points in the direction of his office area and mimes firing a shot. Rhys watches a pale purple tracer travel towards Jack’s armchair and disappear on contact.

“There we go. At the conclusion of step three, we’ve tagged the soon-to-be-unfortunate target. Or, if we really, _really_ suck at shooting, a soon-to-be-unfortunate ceiling beam, in which case, never fear, just press _this_ button to cancel, and try again. But let’s be optimistic, shall we? Target: tagged! Now for step four, a.k.a. the fun part, a.k.a. shooting things!

“Provided the gun is set to smart targeting mode– Hmm, should it automatically set itself to that as soon as a tracer shot is fired? Maybe? But what if you’re trying to be some sorta fancy cowboy, firing a tracer shot one way, then shooting manually elsewhere while the tracer flies, and only _then_ turning fire on the tagged target? Yeah, we’ll need to allow for that as well. Tell you what, we should include that in the settings, let ‘em choose. Hey, note-taking program!” If Jack’s barked command hadn’t made Rhys jump, the brand new screen spawning into view an inch away from his face still would have.

“Anyway,” Jack continues once he sends the screen away, satisfied with the notes. “Here comes the actual bullet with the payload. Bang-bang-bang!” Jack points the holo-gun towards the non-existent ceiling, pulls the trigger three times: each of the sparkling blue shots travels in a straight line for about a foot after leaving the barrel, then arcs gracefully towards the previously tagged armchair, and disappears in the same spot as the tracer did.

“Now, you’ll also remember that for all the fancy tricks, these guns will still take regular ammo, which means that even if our customer runs out of tracers, they’ll still have a perfectly functional piece, so none of that ‘oh no, my secret weapon has failed at the most critical moment’ crap. But assuming smart targeting is on, then on its journey from magazine to receiver to barrel, the bullet is laced with our super-special, like-attracts-like, pre-treated eridium– Oh, and when I say ‘laced’, have you actually seen– Hang on...”

Jack throws the gun prototype over his shoulder (Rhys follows the hologram with his eyes as it flies through the air and then stops, suspended from an invisible string and slowly rotating on its vertical axis). He looks back to Jack in time to see him making a face as he swipes a bunch of schematics away.

“Ah, fuck, I can’t find it in here right now. But anyway, you ever look at eridium-ed bullets under the microscope? When we did our micro-batch test with what little of the purple stuff we salvaged from that crate of Singularities? I’m really quite pragmatic, Rhysie, but I can’t deny beauty when I see it and _damn_ , that freaking _patina_ on the surface, it really looks like some kinda lace made from purple snowflakes. Seriously, the moment you get topside, go dig them out and take a look. So goddamn pretty!”

“I will,” Rhys promises. “So you were saying?”

“So I was _saying_ , now the bullet has just enough eridium on it to make it basically gravitate to where the tracer hit. As seen.” Jack jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the chair. “Hey, how long are we making the tag last, again? It’s gotta depend on the amount of eridium we put in the tracer… eh, that’s for later. Not the point. The _point_ isn’t how much eridium, but what kind. You’ll remember that it’s not just _any_ eridium that gets drawn to itself. Heh, the extraction infrastructure would’ve been a helluva lot simpler if it all just stuck in one spot naturally. But no, it only does that with a few isotopes, mostly artificial ones, which is, of course, good news for us and for our happy customer: meaning, the targeting won’t get distracted by any other eridium even if they wanna have a shoot-out inside an actual eridium mine. As long as they don’t try it inside a garbage dump with a certain ratio of electronics and organics, ‘cause that… Heh, yeah, remind me to tell you _that_ story, ‘cause as far as the original Singularity goes, that was kind of my ‘apple to the head’ moment, except, you know, I was in one of Helios’ trash compactors, and the stuff hitting me on the head was whatever Meg-the-thresher was throwing at it. Heh.” Jack snorts. “Still can’t believe Nakayama named her that… Jealous little bastard. Anyway!”

“Let’s recap. Tracer shot with special eridium goes out, special eridium gets stuck to target, payload gets laced with the same kinda special eridium, payload gets attracted to target… boom! Smart Targeting, Mark One. Now, if our gun was the only one in the universe, it might as well be Mark One and Done. But since it ain’t, it’s not enough that we have Special Eridium, we need ourselves some Extra Fucking Special Eridium, so as there’d be no chance of any tracers getting confused. Which is where you come in, with that sweet-ass code you put inside the receiver– It really is pretty good, by the way. Like, I look at it now, and I almost can’t tell you’ve barely seen a coffee cup’s worth of real eridium in your life and were mostly going off some genius’s explanation. So your code, and this baby here...” 

Jack grabs a 3D schematic of the AEH-1 receiver, pulls it apart, taps the model of a nano-digistructor that, even blown up to many times its size, is still smaller than Jack’s fingernail. 

“That’s what gives the eridium inside our tracer shot a kind of, uh, what’d you call it, subatomic scaffolding? Makes it rearrange itself just so while still staying safely inside the like-attracts-like window of parameters. And that’s how we turn SE to EFSE, which is both inside the tracer shot and laced onto the payload. So let’s think of this as Smart Targeting, Mark Two, by Handsome and Strongfork. Uh, okay, maybe don’t put that on the packaging… How you doin’, cupcake, you with me so far?”

“Yeah…” Rhys can’t help but chuckle. “You… you did just point out we made Mark Two together, you realize?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just never took you for the ‘skip the foreplay’ type, you know? But anyway, yeah, Mark Two’s pretty great, but there’s still a snag. The receiver _is_ the logical place to make the magic happen. Bu-u-ut, if we make _all_ the magic happen there, then we’ve put way too many eggs in one basket. We gotta operate from the premise that nothing is unhackable, remember? And if someone hacks into the receiver… Well, they basically own your targeting system _and_ your ass. Which is about to get targeted. And yeah, sure, for manual shots, it’s not gonna do jack – heh – but smart targeting? Hoo boy. 

“I mean, for starters, throw off the match between the tracer eridium and payload eridium, and you ain’t got no targeting anymore. And _I_ were hacking it and wanted to show off, well, how about I make your payload eridium match the one on someone else’s tracer? And now you have the Stop Shooting Yourself Problem. Yeah, it’s gonna take some pretty advanced hacking, it’s super-duper unlikely, but if it happens, you might as well kiss your whole _brand_ goodbye, ‘cause there’s no coming back from a ‘smart targeting’ gun that shoots its owner.”

“Yeah.” Rhys nods. “This is something I don’t want to take any chances with.”

“Well, Rhysie.” Jack rolls up the already rather rolled-up sleeves of his yellow jumper. “Didn’t I say, on more than one occasion, that I excel at saving your ass? Allow me to present… Mark Three.”

Jack swipes in a holo of the receiver that, at first blush, looks exactly the same as the previous one. He taps multiple points on it to make them explode into walls of code. 

“This is your code for the subatomic scaffolding routine. Now look here–” he scrolls down and down, then back up again, and freezes the view in place– “and tell me what you see.”

Rhys skims the familiar lines. “You added an extra argument here, passed from somewhere externa– the tracer round? And then there’s an extra check… Wait, wait, so if I understand this correctly, every time the user fires a tracer shot, the gun is going to _ask the clip for the password_?”

“Hah! Almost. It’s gonna ask once per clip. I mean, we _could_ make it every shot – I mean, imagine being able to tag, like, three different targets, and then each bullet just knowing where to go, hah, now _that_ would be something. But we’ll save it for something fancy. Something slower, too. Hmm, maybe missile launchers, won’t that be a blast– oh, stop it with the eye roll, that was unintentional. _Notes!_ ”

“Sure it was,” Rhys mutters while Jack browbeats the note-taking program again.

“Anyway, you get the idea. Basically, if the receiver is your echo-mail server, the clip’s your user session, and the password resets every time you log out, i.e. the tracer clip runs out, or if you close it, i.e. you throw away the tracer clip. And then it’s time for a new securely-generated password, courtesy of your information security team or, in this case, your new tracer clip, available exclusively from your nearest Atlas vending machine. And the tracer rounds are delicate as fuck – like, I wouldn’t even trust your cyber digits here with them. So anyone wants to tamper with the clips, well, good luck, fellas, enjoy the chemical burns.”

“Yeah, that would… That would work…” Rhys mutters, reading the new additions to the code. He points at a line. “You should also put in an automatic timeout. So if you still have the same tracer clip, but haven’t used it for a bit, it’ll wipe your credentials from the receiver after, uh, make it five minutes? And make the clip re-authenticate next time you use it.”

“Yes! Good thinking!” Jack pokes the code to make room for extra lines, subjects the screen to a brief and silent stare so intense, the code doesn’t look like it’s being edited as much as intimidated into a better version of itself. “There, that oughta do it. But wait, there’s more…” 

Rhys stands still as Jack saunters circles around him, reaching after schematic after schematic, expounding on every detail of the design. He watches. He listens. While his chest gets fuller and fuller with… something. 

A kind of light. Warm, golden, effervescent. It pours into Rhys with every second that passes, every syllable of Jack’s exhilarated speech, every glimpse of Jack’s blazing eyes and incandescent grin. It pours into him, to the brink and over, until he’s too full to breathe, to speak, to do anything except stand there and wait and wish and _pray_ for a natural break in Jack’s infinite monologue, because while no longer torn between the two earlier, conflicting options, he just can’t bring himself to break the flow of this moment. Not right now. Not when Jack is walking on air all but literally, emanating enthusiasm in dizzying waves, conducting the symphony of the 3D holographic models around him with effortless, airy gestures and, at times, with voice alone.

Jack has always had every hallmark of a star. Powerful. Radiant. Inexorable in his gravity.

None of that has changed. But never before has Rhys felt so acutely like he could reach out towards that searing blaze and be neither scorched nor crushed, but warmed, welcomed, drawn into a sure and steady orbit.

Even so. He can’t just go ahead and interrupt Jack. Not even to– 

There’s an arm around Rhys’s shoulders, and Jack’s face is right next to his as he guides Rhys’s eye towards a close-up of the connection between the tracer clip and the receiver, makes the view explode with a flick of his finger, points out the exact spot where the extra input from the clip will travel to the nano-digistructor, Jack’s mastery of eridium seamlessly combining with Rhys’s code to produce–

“–a work of freaking _art_ , Rhysie, make no mista–”

With a light but swift touch on the side of the jaw, Rhys tilts Jack’s face towards him, and kisses him square on the mouth.

This is exactly like the time they kissed almost two months ago. Jack tastes like high noon and burnt coffee, and although Jack’s got no use for air, he still draws in a quick, sharp breath around the kiss, followed by a slower, deeper exhale as he sighs into Rhys’s mouth, and Jack’s fingers are warm and rough when they come to rest against Rhys’s cheek.

And this is _nothing_ like the time they kissed almost two months ago, and not just because it’s Rhys kissing Jack this time, or because he can feel Jack’s smile before their mouths lock tighter together, or because one of Jack’s arms is now around him, and one of Rhys’s hands is in Jack’s hair.

It _is_ all of those things, of course, but there’s more to it. So much more. 

As much as _that kiss_ was mutually flustered determination turned caution-tinged thrill, _this_ one is momentary surprise bloomed into full-hearted delight. 

_That_ kiss, for all the warning, neither of them really saw coming. This one might’ve come unannounced, but has been hovering over both their shoulders for many days now.

The kiss they shared two months ago, summarized in one word, two words, three? 

_What_? 

_Holy shit._

_Oh my god._

This here kiss, today?

_Here we go._

_About time._

_Finally._

With what little capacity Rhys has left to think, he realizes that he’s probably reading way, way too much into this, because for god’s sake, it’s just a kiss, and for god’s sake, he’s a grown man, and _for god’s sake_ , this is _Jack_ , so he’s probably more amused than anything, and, for god’s sake, why is Jack pulling away, no, no, not yet– 

Rhys blinks slowly, and when he can see again, he finds his view filled with a pair of eyes. Blue and green.

“Well,” Jack mutters against his mouth. “They say that hard work is its own reward, but–”

“Shut up.” Rhys chuckles, breathlessly, one hand still tangled in Jack’s hair, the other holding on to Jack’s lapel for dear life.

“Okay.” 

As Jack’s palm slips to the back of Rhys’s neck, while the other presses between his shoulder blades, draws him closer and closer and closer, with a warm, inescapable gravity, Rhys finds himself thinking about orbits again. 

He remembers thinking, once upon a time, that being in orbit means always falling towards something and always missing. The idea has always felt so profoundly… sad. But as he’s kissing Handsome Jack again, he can’t help but remember that an orbit also means closeness, and spinning through the giant uncaring universe together, or, at the very least, a little less alone, and gravity that’s always at least a tiny bit mutual. He remembers that orbits come in different shapes and types, and while there’s no shortage of orbits doomed to decay, no shortage of celestial bodies charred into lifeless rock and swallowed by fire, there are also orbits that are stable and safe, orbits in a habitable zone...

And when Jack exhales a low moan against his lips, kisses him deeper while his hands slip under Rhys’s blazer, their touch hot through the silky shirt fabric, another thought rises in Rhys’s mind, clear and insane and terrified at its own audacity.

Orbits can also be binary.


	20. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world of code, a universe of ones and zeroes arranged to convincingly trick the senses, and to trick those without into believing they _have_ senses, in a world where everything is virtual ('almost') and simulated (‘false’), Rhys is the one thing that’s actually real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who made it this far. This isn't the end of the fic. Not by a lo-o-ong shot. Still, if I got struck by a meteor tomorrow, I'd still rest in relative peace after having reached this point. (Plus, what a way to go.)
> 
> * * *

_~~days since last incident: 1~~ _

So here we are, thinks Jack as he lets Rhys’s hand pin his shoulder to the back of the couch, tilts his head back and grins up at Rhys in the brief second before his mouth is claimed again. This... is okay.

‘Here’, it seems, is a state of mutual understanding that yeah, okay, apparently, we make out now; yeah, okay, that’s a thing; yeah, I’m into it if you’re into it; no, I’m not gonna make it weird if you’re not gonna make it weird; so, we cool? we cool.

You’d think that after yesterday, what with Rhys’s interruption of Jack’s demonstration of Smart Targeting Mark Three, and Jack’s being happy to continue said interruption into a proper intermission, ‘here’ would’ve become solidified as their current state. But you’d only think that if you haven’t met Rhys.

Seeing as Jack _had_ met Rhys, none of today so far came as a surprise. Neither the low frequency of the chat messages during the day, nor Rhys showing up a good hour later than usual, nor his many awkward slips from ‘friendly’ back into ‘professional’ once he finally showed up in the VR. Just rolling with it seemed like the best option, and Jack did just that, and by the end of their meeting, most of the unease in the air seems to have dissipated, and Rhys was acting most of the way back to normal. So that was cool. But it also became obvious that if Jack _kept_ rolling with it, they were looking at another couple of months without anything more compromising than a handshake.

No more rolling with it, then.

_Hey, cupcake_. ( _Yeah?_ )

A hand on Rhys’s chin. (A freeze; a blush, beginning.)

A grin. (A blush, deepening. A corner of the mouth, curling up.)

A kiss. (A sigh. Both arms thrown around Jack’s neck. A kiss, returned)

And minutes later, here we are, with Jack sat on the couch, Rhys’s lanky limbs draped all over him, Jack grinning up at Rhys as he pulls back from the kiss for a moment, Rhys’s face with, for want of a better word, stars in his eyes, hovering inches away from Jack.

Yeah. This is okay.

This is so much more than okay, though, ‘cause Rhys’s body is a reassuring, _real_ weight in Jack’s lap, and Jack can’t help but lean into every touch of Rhys’s fingers against his skin, and Rhys’s mouth, well… In a program that has so far failed to recreate the real taste of literally anything, Rhys’s mouth tastes like spearmint and starlight.

In a world of code, a universe of ones and zeroes arranged to convincingly trick the senses, and to trick those without into believing they _have_ senses, in a world where everything is virtual (‘almost’) and simulated (‘false’), Rhys is the one thing that’s actually real.

And if any of that were figurative, Jack would be the first to kick his own ass for dipping into some truly high-school-worthy romantic nonsense. But those are simple facts.

(Besides, if Jack wanted high-school-worthy romantic nonsense, he’d have to point out that kissing Rhys feels like the most real thing he’s done since getting here. That just being with Rhys like this makes him feel almost certainly more real than his software was ever meant to be. That since becoming aware of his nature as an AI, he’s swung wildly along the scale between person and program, human and machine, real and virtual, and now more than ever, Rhys feels like a handhold in humanity, a tether to reality, a lifeline to… well, _life._ )

(Admitting something like that, now _that’s_ something he’d have to kick his own ass for.)

Rhys breaks away from Jack’s mouth to leave a trail of kisses along his jawline, drawing a low rumble from his throat.

“Rhysie…”

“Mmm?” Rhys hums into his ear, compensating for the lack of words with a nibble. Jack presses his mouth to Rhys’s neck by way of response, savors the little moans that tumble from Rhys’s mouth as he traces the circles of his tattoo with his lips and tongue.

They trade kisses and touches for a while before it becomes obvious neither is taking things further. Rhys’s hand slips under Jack’s sweater and traces pathways up and down his back, but he makes no move to pull the sweater off him. Jack leaves kisses, punctuated with an occasional bite, all over Rhys’s neck and throat, and exactly as far along his clavicles as his open shirt collar allows.

And it’s not like Jack doesn’t want to rip that silk shirt and pinstripe trousers off of Rhys, pin him down and cover his entire body in kisses before fucking him to within an inch of his life. And it’s not like Rhys has made a single move or sound to even remotely suggest he wouldn’t be open to the idea.

And yet Jack can’t seem to bring himself to go any further. And neither, it seems, can Rhys.

But… it’s still okay, somehow. Which makes exactly zero sense. ‘Cause on the long list of things Jack’s into, delayed gratification has never even made the top twenty.

Maybe, thinks Jack, maybe it’s a bit like climbing a mountain. Before you go any higher, you have to train your lungs to breathe the thinner air up here.

Rhys’s mouth finds his again, coaxes Jack’s lips open into a kiss that’s just as sweet and hungry as before, but a new flavor lingers underneath. Confidence. Almost… comfort?

What if, thinks Jack, he got his metaphors all wrong? What if _this_ isn’t the thinner air? But just plain old air, the kind that everyone else breathes? And what he’s doing right now isn’t climbing a mountain, but surfacing from a dive, and once he’s had the time to decompress, he can just… breathe the real thing again, instead of whatever was in the half-empty, rusted, banged-up canisters he’s been surviving off for god knows how long?

After all, once upon a time, he, or some version of him, used to know how to breathe properly. Can’t be that hard to learn that again.

Or can it? 

...Yeah, it probably can.

Still. Whichever metaphor applies, this altitude will do Jack fine for a while. Rhys, it seems, is also pretty comfortable here.

This is… okay. 

(This is so much more than okay.)

This is… real. 

(Much more real than it’s got any right to be.)

And for now, this is... enough.

(Implausibly, shockingly, breathtakingly _enough_.)


End file.
